


Happenstance

by anaisangel



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Attempted Sexual Assault, Catharsis, Coercion, Damsels in Distress, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Smut, F/M, Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, Introspection, Kidnapping, Paranoia, Rape Tag Is A Precaution, Slow Burn, Tagging as I go, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26585971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaisangel/pseuds/anaisangel
Summary: “Here - wouldn’t want you to losethislittlegem.”With a startling amount of dexterity he flipped the knife in his hand, snatching it by the blade and gesturing it toward you. You hesitated, then shimmied your hand free from the endless tunnel of sleeve and took it, feeling the tacky residue he had left on it. You gave a pull but he didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned down.“It’s a dog eat dog world,sweethear-t.” His breath was hot, blowing your hair like leaves in a breeze. You were rigid, joints stiff with fear.“Better start biting back.”A strange man comes to your rescue in the nick of time, saving you from a would be unsavory fate. Although something about him isn’tright—and it's not just the horrid scars on his face.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Reader
Comments: 128
Kudos: 136





	1. Dubious Altruism

_"The probability of a certain set of circumstances coming together in a meaningful (or tragic) way is so low that it simply cannot be considered mere coincidence. ”_

― V.C. King

* * *

Six months ago, you startled at your own shadow as you risked the alley shortcut on your way home. After your front door closed behind you, you leaned back against it and gripped the strap of the low hanging satchel purse draped across your chest, knuckles white as you willed a calm to your tremulous heart. You had laughed about it when the fear receded, but where you lived, the tide of alarm was a constant ebbing and flowing wave. 

Every turn and every dimly lit corner of the city was home to monsters with men’s faces, their teeth were dull but they bared them like feral dogs. At least, from _your_ perspective―a cesspool of festering danger at every corner, mongrels waiting, impatient for the vulnerable to skitter by. 

_That_ night, your shadow could do nothing but stare when the monsters in the dark came to play. The same alleyway, the same satchel purse ripped over your head to snag on your earring, ripping it clean from your lobe.

You'd taken the initiative and bought yourself a small, pink handled switchblade from the local hunting supply, which you stared at with mortification as thick, dirty fingers wrapped around it’s pastel hilt. 

_‘Cute little thing.’_ They remarked, although whether they were talking about your knife or yourself, you weren’t sure.

The blade on it was unsullied, never used before that night. Marco, the burly, bearded assistant at the weapons supply, had told you it was pre-sharpened, ready to go. His coined salesmen smirk split his face with a startling amount of white against his tanned skin. _This little badboy’ll cut through whatever you throw at it―_ like blouses, or jeans, or skin. 

Their weight was suffocating. You wanted to dissipate, break down into atoms and seep into the concrete that whittled your shoulder blades. Evaporate and let the smog thick air that whistled through the alleyway carry you on it’s wings; maybe you would find yourself at the harbor, and your essence would ride the waves. You don’t remember if you screamed. 

When the weight was lifted, it was abrupt. Air had rushed into your lungs, your trembling hands wrapped around yourself as though pushing everything back in place, holding the pieces until the glue dried. Your savior was ominous and said nothing, but the noises he made were borderline savage, and you watched, terror stricken as a rescue mission turned into a slaughter. 

He had thrown them on the ground, their head meeting with a sickening _crack._ They weren’t moving, but your rescuer didn’t relent; dropping down, he hunched over them, broad shoulders made sharp with the cut of his trench coat as he drew back his fists in a repetitious cycle. The sound of knuckles meeting bone, of gnarly wet, gurgling. He grunted with exertion, low snarling, feral in his throat. The savage rhythm had stopped as quick as it had begun, and you watched, shocked, as he brought his hands up and brushed his hair from his face, giving a deep sigh. Then, he stood. 

When he turned to you, you froze. 

He looked like the mutt that had seen too many kennel fights; his hair was a shaggy unkempt mess, grazing his broad shoulders in waves. The shape of his eyes were deceivingly kind, iris’ a startling hue of intense jet. On either side of his mouth, the poorly healed remnants of a gruesome wound. The flesh was gnarled and protruding on the left, small fissures off-shooting from the deep divot like individual lighting bolts. On the right, a cleaner scar that curled at the end. In the long shadows from the filtered streetlamp, it appeared he was grinning with grotesque elation. 

“Get up.” He said, not sparing an ounce of couth. 

You stared up at him, wide eyed―gratitude and fear whirling around in your shaken brain. Then, with an exasperated sigh that curled into a growl, he reached down and shoved a crimson mottled hand between your upper arm and your flank, hoisting you to your shaken legs and letting go before you found your footing. You nearly stumbled over with the haste step back, a smart of pain making you grimace. 

He looked at you, although that didn’t seem apt; the way his eyes narrowed it felt more like he was looking _through_ you. Intimate in the most unpleasant way, you felt laid bare―the chill that ran down your spine lending favor to your discomfort. Without a word, he began shucking off his trench coat. Your stomach twisted with a sickening nausea as you dared a step back, kicking your satchel purse across the loose asphalt. 

“Don’t flatter yourself.” He remarked, low. His voice was strange, low with gruff but holding a nasally inflection. It didn’t match the rest of him. 

“Looks like _little red riding hood_ fell into some _trouble_.” He continued, with zero fanfare he tossed the trench at you. You quickly scrambled to catch it, it’s weight deceiving and nearly slipping from your fingers. He spared you another pointed look, flicking his attention from your flabbergasted face to the trench in hand, “Didn’t granny tell you to, ah - watch out for _wolves?”_

You felt tongue-tied a moment, unsure how to respond in a way that wouldn’t turn whatever that moment was sideways. Something like, _‘are you on the prowl, too?’_ rang faintly in your head, but stayed behind your tightly locked jaw. His fair brows jumped once, unimpressed with your lack of response, and then he shrugged. 

Turning, he peered down at your assailant silently. The cool air swept across your skin, more so than you’d like exposed with the ruthless tug and pull of your own switchblade moments prior. Hesitantly, you fumbled with the jacket, sliding an arm into a sleeve that was well too long. The smell of it was displaced in your mind, some strange concoction of tobacco, an earthy resin, its pleasantness off-put with a heady bite of metallic, and sweat. It swallowed you whole as you pulled it to overlap over your front. 

“Are…Are you going to walk me home, or something?” You shifted on your feet awkwardly, watching him as he bent down and plucked your knife off the ground. Rising slowly, he turned the blade and admired it in the dim lighting. 

“That would be the _gentlemanly_ thing to do, hmm?” He mused aloud, then turned to face you again. He had gripped it by the handle, proper and posed in his bloodied grasp. His presence set your teeth on edge; a blithe smile curved his mouth, bunching the corded flesh on his face. 

He took a step, closing a significant amount of space with a single stride of his long legs. You felt shadowed beneath him, unnerved as your gaze darted from the knife in his hand, to his benign expression; kindly, but it missed the mark by a margin and veered to menacing. In that fleeting moment, your heart had lodged in your throat, and you couldn’t breathe. 

“Here - wouldn’t want you to lose _this_ little _gem_.” With a startling amount of dexterity he flipped the knife in his hand, snatching it by the blade and gesturing it toward you. You hesitated, then shimmied your hand free from the endless tunnel of sleeve and took it, feeling the tacky residue he had left on it. You gave a pull but he didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned down. 

“It’s a dog eat dog world, _sweethear_ -t.” His breath was hot, blowing your hair like leaves in a breeze. You were rigid, joints stiff with fear. “Better start biting _back_.” 

He let go, and you quickly retreated a step, curling your grasp around the hilt with a steadying squeeze. He cocked his head then, looking at you like you were a curiosity on a shelf. The way he stood, unflinching and passive, was as concerning as the grin that stretched his mouth―it was toothy, broad. Behind his mangled lips was a maw of stained, filthy teeth. It reflected perfectly his presence; from man to monster. 

“Keep that warm for me, would’ya? It wasn’t cheap, and I’m feeling especially _chivalrous_.” He said, scanning down your frame, then back up. 

“W-Why don’t you just take it back.” You offered, on the side of too eager as you began pulling your arms from the sleeves. The sooner you get it back to him, the sooner you would be able to book it out of there, sans ties. 

He clicked his tongue off the roof of his mouth sharply, bringing a hand up and stopping you with a pointed index - his nails were unkempt, mottled with blood and something else you couldn’t quite make out in the dark. 

“Wouldn’t want you to catch a _cold_ or anything―no, that’d be _unfortunate_.” His tone was sickly-sweet, you felt like you had a stomachache. A visceral unease continuously itched beneath your skin the longer he was around. 

“How’s about you scamper on outta here, while the going’s good?” He urged, giving a shooing flap of his hand. “I’ve got a, uh… _mess_ , to clean up.” And he said it so low and airy you almost didn’t hear him, but you did.

You shuffled back, the knife in your hand gripped tight enough to lock the joints in your knuckles. 

He hummed in appreciation, watching you intently as you tore your attention from him to your bag. The urge to run filled you with anxiety, beating against your sternum like a harrowing drum. 

“Go on― _skedaddle_.” 

Abandoning any hesitance, you quickly scuffled to your bag and snatched it up, flinging it over your shoulder while backing away further. Having lost interest in you, he turned back to your assailant, still knocked unconscious and splayed on the ground. A hand dug around in the front right pocket of his pants, and you didn’t stay long enough to see what he’d procure. 

You half jogged, half speed-walked your way back onto the main street. Overcome with with a delayed rush of panic, you gasped for air and pushed through the burn in your lungs. Every alternate ending to your encounter in that alleyway played through your head on a fast track, a spinning wheel of flashing crime scene-esque horror that made your gut twist. 

The trench weighed heavily on your shoulders, thick and reeking of a man who you had no doubt, despite his display of dubious altruism, was worse than any of the mongrels lurking the shadows; the big bad to your little red. 

The throb in your chest urged you to stop, your pace was a steadfast jog as your mind got the better of you. You heaved for air, it was crisp and seared it’s way down your throat as you reached out and balanced yourself on a lamp post, it’s yellowed glow flickering above. Catching your bearings, you finally took a moment to acknowledge it’s sweltering presence on your body. 

It looked black in the shadows of the alleyway, but the scintillating light of the lamp proved wrong―it was a deep purple. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter of this was originally written as a one-shot, but a concept struck me and I've decided to continue from this with a multi-chapter fic! I've never written something quite like this, it's essentially freeform and, really, me trying my hand at weaving a story together. I sincerely hope you enjoyed the first chapter, and that you'll continue to enjoy wherever the story goes next! 
> 
> Concrit is welcome, feedback and kudos are greatly appreciated!


	2. Revelations

_“Fear is a phoenix. You can watch it burn a thousand times and still it will return.”_

  
― Leigh Bardugo

* * *

There were two key factors as to why you didn't rip the trench coat from your body and throw it into the gutter that night.

One, and arguably the most sensible given what had happened, was that your shirt clung to your frame by threads, tattered and soiled and the chill that steeped Gotham that night was so prevalent that you could see your breath punch from your lungs in transparent plumes. It was the only thing that kept you on the better end of indecent, the draft that slithered up the length with each step an evident reminder. 

Two, and certainly the most asinine, was the fear that he would know. He had ostensibly saved you from an otherwise unsavory fate, offered you covering when your clothes didn't hold out, and, most notably, returned your knife to you when opportunity arose for the maliciously inclined. While he didn't particularly strike you as benevolent, _his overzealous handling of your attacker proved that much_ , he didn't hurt _you_. 

Still, there was no denying the fear that dripped down your spine - sweat, despite the cold that stung your cheeks. 

The jacket reeked of a myriad of displaced aromas, and what you realized once a semblance of control returned, _gasoline._ Your befuddled mind was conjuring the improbable - you blamed the vapor of gasoline as you glanced behind you in search of smoke, flickering shadows along the brick stone walls of the alleyway, the scent of burnt flesh - something you'd never (and hoped to never) experience, but imagined charred pork regardless.

You continued to peer over your shoulder as you walked briskly, on multiple occasion your heart leaping at the obscure shadow or imagined shuffle of movement. The fifteen minute walk was cut in half, and nothing short of a psychological horror.

You couldn't stop the thoughts that continuously nudged center stage; the sound of cloth tearing, the pound of fists on bone, _crack_ and _slick_ in equal balance, his nasally inflection that dripped with barely veiled guile. Your legs felt boneless, a prickling of cold on your thighs as you trekked onward with your pink handled blade stull clutched in hand. 

Before you knew it you could see the alcove to your apartment, the yellow flickering light sans shade which you had forgotten to turn off that morning, appearing like a lighthouse beacon through the fog. It's the glowing feeling of salvation, of finding home, that made you stop dead in your tracks. You stood motionless, air burning like dry ice in your throat as you stared at your front door. 

If you were followed, if one of the disregarded shadows _was_ tangible, lurking with a perpetual grin - 

Without thinking, you pivoted at the waist and looked behind you, breath snagged as though fully anticipating his shadowed visage to be _right there._ Staring _,_ you scanned the desolate street with the harrowing drum of your heartbeat in your ears, scrutinizing every vaguely humanoid blotch of darkness.

When you found nothing, and feeling completely unsated with that knowledge, you gave a steadying sigh through pursed lips and continued onward. At the top of the concrete stairs leading to your door, you stopped again. 

Something about bringing the jacket into your house seemed comparable to inviting a demon into your soul. You had half the mind to simply throw it, but recollection stayed your decision; _Keep that warm for me, would'ya?_

Was there a possibility that he would actually come looking for it? Just the thought of it made the hairs on the back of your neck raise. With shaking hands, you fumbled with the knife, closing it and grimacing at the tacky blood that still stuck to it.

Angling to the porchlight, you began sifting through your satchel for your keys - all the while contemplating on what the hell to do with this jacket that kept falling over your hands. After unlocking the door, watching it swing open slowly to your dimly lit living room, you stepped inside. 

There was a part of you that believed you were overreacting. That intentions were good, he was just a little strange (and violent, _don't forget that)_ , and absolutely nothing would come of that night say for a bad memory and a grungy plum trench.

You flicked the lock, the flimsy chain above that, and turned, resting your back against the cheap hollow wood of your front door. 

* * *

Sitting on your couch, fingers steepled together with your elbows on your knees, you stared. The jacket was a mountain of cloth atop your coffee table, thrown there haphazardly after your senses had come to you, and the overwhelming urge to wash your hands took hold.

The water circled down the drain of your kitchen sink with a pink hue, and you continued your deliberate scrubbing until it was clear, and your skin raw. 

_There could be something to identify him_ , you thought. Chances were he wouldn't give you something that held his wallet or phone, but perhaps a business card - you tried your hardest not to judge, but he didn't seem _quite_ the business type - and after a moment you finally reached out and grabbed it. It was weighted with something, you were reminded as you picked it up, and quietly looked it over. 

It was inarguably a very nice jacket; the outside a thick purple cotton, the inside lined with a silky, rusty orange. Glancing absently for a tag, you realized after a moment of searching that there was none - not even a seam or tear where there would have been. With your curiosity piqued higher than your caution, you flipped the jacket around and slipped a hand into one of the side pockets, fingers immediately coming to contact with something cold. Pulling it free, you found that it was a knife. 

Your heart seized a moment, unsure what to make of it; unlike yours, it was an automatic stiletto - you remembered the type, as you almost bought one for yourself while searching, eventually taking a liking to the petite pink one - and with a press of a button the blade shot out with a not unsatisfying _shlick_ of metal. 

"Holy shit." You breathed, absently turning it in your hand.

It wasn't a small knife, rather imposing if you didn't know any better. The thought that he had this on him, that you carried this home, made your stomach twist. With wariness, you eventually figured out how to slide the blade back in place, before setting it on the coffee table. 

One blade would have been fine, you thought.

Everyone carried some iteration of defense on them in this city, and you yourself carried around a knife. Then there were two, the second a classic black switchblade. Then three, same as the first but the handle was well worn and the blade nicked with scratches.

It was at that point you resigned and quickly threw the knives back into the pockets, tossing the jacket back onto the table as though it burned your hands. 

You considered throwing it away, then thought better of it. The idea of donating it seemed laughable. Placing it outside like some sort of offering was the equivalent of painting a big red X on your door. You settled on shoving it into the far recesses of your linen closet, telling yourself you'd deal with it soon. 

* * *

The sky was a slate grey, a mixture of smog and overcast over Gotham. You stared absently out the specked window of the bus, jostling over the bumps and keeping to yourself as it made it's way through Midtown. Exhaustion bore heavy on you, the day stretched on longer than you wanted and you could visibly see the orange hue of the sun, it's descent bleeding color into the clouds. 

It's been almost a week since that night, and despite your best efforts, resuming a normal, paranoia free life was near impossible. The events themselves would have been traumatizing enough, but you simply could not stop thinking about your unnerving rescuer. To top things off, at the rate the bus was going, you'd be lucky to make it to West Harlow before nightfall.

Walking home in the dark - you'd made it a point to leave work with daytime to spare, but it seemed forces that be had other plans. 

Your bounced your knee absently, glancing around the bus with habit. An elderly man sat hunched over a brown paper-bagged bottle opposite the isle from you. Behind you, a brunette woman with a high, tight bun stared out the window with her purse clutched in hand. Two teenagers shared a phone in the seats in front of you. A smattering of withdrawn faces filled in every other seat on the bus, and not a single one of them came across remotely interesting.

Everyone was utterly unimposing - like every day this week, completely innocuous, _normal_. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't ease the tension from your shoulders, couldn't digress from the constant badgering sensation that you were being watched. 

By the time the bus arrived at your stop, the sun was all but retired, and the streetlamps aglow. With your hands in your jacket pockets, the right grasped firmly around the hilt of your pink switchblade, you briskly made your way down the street. The last few days you made it a point to avoid the alleyways, even with sunlight basking all the dark corners, and you had no intention of playing roulette now that the shadows had returned.

Your extended detour added time - more time to dwell on those recollections you couldn't quite shake - but you made it to your concrete steps in one piece, and for that you were grateful. 

As you dug through your satchel purse for your keys, the sound of a screen door opening and closing had you glance up. Your neighbor, Jeremy, stepped out with a cigarette pinched between his fingers, bare feet padding against the concrete as he shuffled to let the door close. 

"Boss got you stayin' late again, huh?" He asked, placing the smoke between his lips before bringing the lighter up. The shadows danced across his features - angled, sharp nose and deep set eyes that appeared black in the night - and he inhaled deeply before scratching at his stubbled jaw with a friendly smile. He was tall, and proudly sported a nest of brown hair atop his head, seemingly protruding in every which direction. Jeremy had always been a keep to himself kind of guy, an untroublesome neighbor and quiet as a mouse. 

"Yeah, they tacked on some deadlines last minute - guess Wayne is planning some big fundraiser out of the blue." You replied, and Jeremey nodded as though it were expected. Considering the client, he wasn't far from wrong. 

"Catering business, right?" 

"Yeah...it's, well it's a step in the right direction for me." You said.

Admittedly, catering was _not_ what you had in mind during those grueling three years of culinary, but to say Gotham wasn't bustling with the demands for chefs was an understatement. The massive order received for Wayne's fundraiser had half the crew threaten mutiny - a weeks time when the protocol for such an invoice called for at _least_ three. Gerald, your callous, cheapskate boss had agreed before the order was even placed. 

_There's no way we're passing up a Wayne fundraiser. People are replaceable - connections are not;_ it wasn't the awe inspiring speech the crew was looking for, but it was certainly a hearty dose of reality. 

"Ever thought about bypassing the middle man, and going right for the client?" Jeremy asked, and you gave him a questioning brow. "Y'know - ditching the catering and signing up right at Wayne industries, or, hell, why not ditch this shithole of a city all together?" 

The idea had occurred to you before, of course. Waltzing into the kitchen at White Horse Catering and throwing your apron in Gerald's face was a reoccurring fantasy. Cutting all ties to Gotham and moving on was also a staple on your _'What I Would Do If I Were...'_ list. But that's just it - you are you, and like it or hate it, your ankle deep in dry cement, tethered to the city with your own doubtful nature and innate desire for something remotely stable, even if deep down you know it's not what you'd really like. 

_Because clutching a knife in fear every walk home is stable._

"Maybe - believe it or not the chef industry is surprisingly cutthroat." You said. Jeremy laughed a little at that. 

"I'm sure it is. I've got a feelin' you can slice and dice your way to the top, though." He sounded genuine, and you felt a flourish of heat creep up your neck at the vote of confidence.

Busying yourself, you procured your keys and made to unlock the door. Jeremy flicked his cigarette and glanced out to the street then.

"If you're stickin' around that place, you should probably tell your boss you need to be home before dark, what with all the crazy shit goin' on lately." 

You nodded in agreement, having been immediately reminded of that night not long ago, before you stopped and gave him a curious look. 

"Wait - what do you mean?" 

Jeremy gave a little shiver and tucked his hands beneath his arms, shifting his bare feet on the ground. "All this talk of Batman phonies and the heist over at Gotham National? Then that video they showed on the news - to say Gotham isn't a safe place right now is a _helluva_ understatement."

Jeremy looked at you a little perplexed when you continued to remain oblivious. 

"I don't really watch the news." Was all you said, and he shook his head. 

"I'd recommended it. Granted, not the most feel-good flick you'll see." 

"Yeah, yeah I'll...have to give it a go sometime." You said, absently. 

Tried as you might, you couldn't help but think there was something suspect of all this - either that or your paranoia was coming back full throttle. 

"-freezing my ass off, so I'm gonna head inside. And, uh...try not to be a stranger." Jeremy offered you a teasing smile, to which you mirrored with what little enthusiasm you had. 

"Night." 

And with that, you quickly opened your door and stepped inside, flicking the lock and pulling the chain. You had intended on going about your normal routine; fix yourself something to eat, take a shower, maybe read a book if your frazzled mind would allow it, and go to sleep. Instead, you quickly crossed your living room, slinging your bag off your shoulder to the couch, where you promptly sat down. 

Jeremy would be ashamed to know you hadn't the slightest idea which channel the news was even _on_ , and after flipping through them quick you eventually happened across GCN, running a late night breaking story, the graphic labeled: _'Batman Dead?'._

_"Police released video footage found concealed on the body. Sensitive viewers be aware: it is disturbing."_

The screen flicked to a shaky recording of a man, dressed in Batman's visage. He was tied to a chair, food carts and the suspended half-carcass of a pig in the background. 

_"Tell them your name."_ The voice spoke behind the camera, it's nasally inflection hitting you with a wave of familiarity. You swallowed thickly and scooted to the edge of the couch, turning the volume up. 

_"Bryan....Douglas."_ He managed. 

With a little giggle and some jerky camera movements, the man spoke again. _"Are you the_ real _Batman?"_

_"No."_

_"No?"_ He echoed between his subdued laughter, taunting. _"Then why do you_ dress up _like him?"_

A gloved hand snagged up the Batman mask, playfully dancing it in frame. Bryan's swollen face tilted with chin to chest as he shifted further from the cameraman. 

_"He's a symbol...that we don't have to be afraid of scum like you."_

_"Yeah...you do Bryan - you_ really _do."_ His voice dropped to a snarl, gloved hand grabbing hold of Bryan's hair and tugging his head back. When he ran his hand over Bryan's weary face with a series of consoling hushes, only to slap either side and continue on, you felt as though you were receiving second-hand whiplash. 

_"So you think Batman's made Gotham a better place?"_

Bryan whimpered in response. 

_"Look at me."_

You were feeling a twisting in your gut, uncomfortable and sick. 

_"Look at me!"_

You physically startled, ready to turn the television off and somehow go to bed after watching something so _fucking_ terrifying - like horror movies, but this was real, this was happening - when the camera jerked around again, and the man behind the lens showed himself. The first thing that caught your attention, and with harrowing dread, was the color of his jacket in the dim lighting. It was a beat after you realized the macabre paint on his face overlapped a pair of mismatched scars on his cheeks.

His eyes like black pits and his smile, yellowed teeth and monstrous. 

Hysterical laugher resounded as he proclaimed the stakes, but you had already bolted from the sofa, halfway down the hall with Bryan's screaming playing for the last remaining seconds of the video. You yanked open the linen closet door, shoving aside the wall of containers you had stuffed the jacket behind. 

You paled - it was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of the story, you went to school to be a chef, and it's not really workin' out for you. I mean, with the way things are going in this story, nothings really working out for you, lol. Anyways - thank you for taking the time to read this! Concrit is welcome, feedback & kudos are the lifeblood of the author, and don't forget to drink some water today, k luv you _byeee._


	3. Bite Back

_“Be careful in the company of monsters that you don't become one.”  
_ ― Cindy Gerard

* * *

_He was here._

If felt as though your heart might implode in your chest, the sensation nauseating as you fretfully searched the linen closet again, to no avail. Everything you had attempted to bottle up since that night was quickly spilling over the rim, your breath snagging in your throat and it took a moment to realize you were having a panic attack. 

He was in your apartment. He searched through your belongings - he had to, how did he find the jacket? - how long ago was he here? The idea that he could have broken in while you were asleep made your gut twist. You were frantically shoving around the items in your linen closet, shampoo bottles and spare blankets falling at your feet as though the trench would manifest itself if you searched hard enough. 

_Calm down - he took the jacket, and that's it._

The fact still remains; he broke into your apartment, he knew where you lived, he was very obviously dangerous and, after seeing the tape on GCN, _completely_ deranged. Even if he did break in while you were here, he again, didn't hurt _you_. The thought offered little by way of consolation. 

Gripping the shelf of the linen closet, you took a deep inhale and steadied yourself.

Gathering what rationale you had, you closed the closet with shaking hands and made your way back into the living room. The news was still running, periodically updating their breaking story - _"As of now, there are no leads to the identity of the suspect in the video. Bryan Douglas has been confirmed deceased at the scene of the crime"_ \- the screen cut to the image of his body, suspended off the flagpole of city hall. The image was startling, you swept the remote off the couch and flipped it off, leaving your apartment deceivingly calm. 

Wringing your hands a moment, you glanced at the front door. Locked. Promptly after, you began making the rounds, pulling back the curtains of every window and checking every lock. You reached the last room - your bedroom - and flicked the light on, quickly approaching the window to the left of your bed. The curtains hung idle, no breeze rolling in to sway them, but as you brushed them aside to check the lock, you found something else.

A playing card. The corner of it wedged snug between the glass and frame. Your breath caught as you timidly reached out and plucked it free from the window (the only window in your apartment that was unlocked), turning it in your hand. It was a Joker card, the edges of it discolored and worn. Scratched writing on the white space read; 

_Lovely place you got, Red_

The prickling sensation of fear rippled up your spine, like you were being watched.

_'Looks like little red riding hood fell into some trouble.'_

Snapping your attention to the window, you quickly locked it and, with your heart hammering in your ears, looked out into the dank alleyway behind your apartment. There was no light to illuminate, just muddled outlines of garbage bins and thickets of overgrown bushes. 

The feeling stuck with you through the night, where you found sleep escaped you completely in favor of grasping your pink handled switchblade and contemplating on just _what the hell to do_. 

_It's the same guy - it has to be._

It only took one encounter to remember his scars, his grin, that strange voice that radiated deviance with every odd intonation. He was close enough in that moment you could feel the heat of him, the smell that you subsequently registered as gasoline, the same smell that lingered on the jacket. You felt his breath on your face. Did he record that video, _kill that man_ , before or after he decided to save you? 

Why he had saved you in that alleyway in the first place was a mystery. That the same man who slung Bryan Douglas' corpse off a flagpole was your psudo-knight in shining armor. He could have killed you. He _should_ have killed you. 

Why didn't he kill you? 

* * *

"Day after _the_ order you're callin' to tell me you're not coming in?" Gerald's irate voice was grating heavily on your preexisting headache. You cringed as he continued on, threats of write ups and possibly termination in your future as you pulled a small ziplock bag from the kitchen drawer. 

"I wouldn't call out unless it was serious." You explained, tucking the phone between your ear and upraised shoulder as you plucked the Joker card off the counter. You were aware that putting it in a bag was a moot point by now, but it seemed the right thing to do. After tucking the bag into your satchel purse, you swept up your keys and switchblade, making for the door. 

"I'm not handing out extra chances here, you call out again and you're done. We're _not_ botching this fundraiser, you hear me -" 

"I hear you, Gerald." 

You paused at the door, Gerald's voice a far away chitter as you felt a spike of anxiety. 

_Get it together - it's broad daylight._

"I mean it. Count this as a first and last warning." 

"I understand, won't happen again." You replied, "I'll be in tomorrow, no problem." Hanging up before Gerald could get another word in, you stuffed your phone in your pocket and opened the door. 

The morning air was brisk, sharp on your cheeks and nose as you turned to lock up. The sound of Jeremy's door opening caught your attention. He slipped out with a faded green hoodie this time, feet still bare against the concrete. Offering a kindly wave, his cigarette already lit between his fingers, you wondered if he might have seen anything - or anyone - because, as far as you were aware, Jeremy almost never left his apartment. 

"Mornin'." 

"Morning." You echoed, and then continued. "Hey - you haven't seen anything... _weird_ lately, have you?" 

Jeremy cocked a brow and pulled a drag from his smoke. 

"You're going to have to be a _little_ more specific." He said on the exhale, a teasing smile on his lips. 

"I mean, people wise. A man, maybe wandering around the complex?" You offered, and Jeremy shook his head. 

"Nope. I'll keep my eyes peeled if you want." 

"Yeah. He...he _might_ be wearing a trench coat." 

"Trench coat? I didn't know people still wore those unironically." Jeremy joked, and if you weren't swimming through the tides of fear and anxiety in your head, you might have laughed. Instead, you nodded, and Jeremy seemed to have picked up on the seriousness of it. 

"Alright, I'll be on the look out for a guy in a trench." 

"Thank you." You breathed, stuffing your hands into your pocket as you skipped down the concrete steps. Your fingers wrapped around your knife, as though instinctively.

The idea to tell Jeremy more, specifically _who_ you thought the man in the trench was, seemed best withheld, at least for the moment. Two people freaking out wouldn't do you any good, and maybe Jeremy wouldn't decide to do anything rash if the man appeared again. 

"Hey." Jeremy called out. You turned to face him, expectant brows as he shifted on his bare feet. "If you _are_ mixed up in some shady shit - not saying you're, like the _type_ to be or anything - you can tell me. I'm pretty good at laying low." He said, a sheepish shrug of his shoulders accenting the awkwardness of it. Regardless, the gesture did not go unappreciated.

You smiled, "Thanks, Jeremy."

* * *

Lieutenant Gordan looked about as you expected; his hair greyed and well trimmed, bespectacled blue eyes that peered at you from the other side of a desk. The thick mustache on his lip worked well with his appearance, and immediately you were under the impression this man did not mess about. There was a certain stoic quality to him that read vigilance, but beyond all of that, he seemed genuinely _kind_. 

After fixing up a couple of coffees, even going the lengths of asking 'Sugar? Cream?', you both had settled the pleasantries and had taken seats on either side of his desk. The precinct seemed a bit hectic, the dull trill of landlines overlapping, the shuffle of papers and the solid metal clink of desk drawers being closed a cacophony around you. Gordan adjusted in his seat, tugged a bit on the lapel of his jacket before taking a casual sip of his coffee. 

He was looking at the card you'd brought with you, centerstage of the desk and still secured in the plastic bag. 

"Tell me again - how did this end up _in_ your apartment? You said you had an encounter of sorts.." He said, trailing off and leading the rest to you with an imploring look in his eyes. You inhaled deeply, unsure how to even begin such a recollection. 

"I...I was walking home from work, and I was attacked." You started, and he offered a small nod of his head and a downturn of his lips, empathetic. "It was really dark, so I couldn't make out much, but he showed up out of nowhere and pushed the guy off of me. Then he beat him."

"He didn't hurt you?" Gordan asked, and you shook your head quick. 

"No. I didn't think much of it, except that he was very...strange. He gave me my knife back, and also his jacket, then told me to go." 

"Knife?" 

You swallowed thickly, unsure if you'd even get in trouble for owning it. "Yeah. I carry around a switchblade, for protection." You clarified. Gordan hummed, and then asked, 

"May I see the knife?" 

"...Sure, but I don't know if it counts for much. There was blood on it, but I washed it off." You explained, fishing out the blade from your pocket. Gordan made to reach for it, and you dropped it into his open palm. 

"He didn't use this on your attacker?" 

You shook your head, "No, he just...beat them up. I don't know what happened after I left, though." 

"And you said you live in West Harlow, around that area?" 

"Yes." 

"About a week ago, guy named Vinny Dupree turns up dead in Harlow Park." Gordan started, setting the pink switchblade down on the desk before he rolled back in his office chair. He tugged the desk drawer open, slouched over as he flicked through the Manella folders inside. "Had a history of domestic abuse and a couple of assault charges. I know you said it was dark, but does this man look familiar to you?" 

Gordan pulled out a report, setting it down beside the switchblade and sliding it across the desk toward you. At the top, the name Vinny Dupree alongside a mugshot. The mans beady eyes and burly build _were_ familiar, and effective enough to have your throat tighten and your stomach flip. 

"Yes. I think - I think that's the guy that attacked me, that night." Gordan reached out and swept the paper back. He had his lips pursed, thoughtful as he tucked the report back into the drawer.

"He killed him?" You pressed.

Gordan didn't respond right away, rather he brought his hands atop the desk and threaded his fingers together. 

"There's a good chance the same man who saved you _did_ kill Vinny Dupree, yes." 

"This man, he's the same guy as on the news, isn't he?" 

"Could you tell me about the card. How'd the card get into your apartment?" Gordan redirected, and you had half the mind to back peddle and demand an answer. The lunatic had already killed two men, and knows where you live, _broke into your home._

"I-I don't know. I don't know when he came, it could have been while I was working or while I was home, sleeping. I have no idea. I just saw the news, recognized the man, the jacket, and I just _knew_. It was gone. I checked all the windows and the only unlocked one was my bedroom, which is where I found the card." You rushed, "Am I in danger?" 

Gordan gave a sigh through his nose, looking unnervingly solemn. 

"This card - " He reached out and touched the plastic bag, turning it slightly. "So far, we've found two of these cards. One, on Bryan Douglas' body. The second, right here." 

"It's a calling card." You breathed, and Gordan nodded. 

"Calls himself The Joker." 

"Why would he give me a card?" 

"That's the real question, isn't it? You said you work in catering? No ties to the mobs, no political affiliates?" 

"No. No, I'm just...I'm no one." 

"It could just be scare tactics. So far, it seems all of his motives are tied in with Batman or the mobs. I don't want to say you don't need to worry, but I can't think of a reason he would go out of his way for this." Gordan mused aloud, and it did very little to soften your nerves. "We're going to take this, try for any residual fingerprints or DNA. Worth a shot right now." 

"What happens now?" You asked, desperately hoping for an answer that would ease your fear. Gordan's downcast expression foretold it wasn't there. 

"We have very little, next to nothing on this guy. Force is stretched thin, but activity in West Harlow means more cops scouting the area." He reached inside his jacket, pulling out a white card. Holding it out, you took it and read the embossed phone number and name. _Lieutenant James W. Gordan._ "Do not hesitate to call if something happens. I know it doesn't count for much right now, but know that we're looking into this thoroughly." 

"Okay." Was all you said, and you sounded lost.

Gordan reached out and touched your hand, spurring you to look at him. He was offering a kindly, reassuring smile that didn't quite work - it didn't matter how friendly he was, or how much he said he cared, you were still in potential, great danger. The way he looked, it seemed he knew it, too. 

* * *

The bus was late, and you stood at the corner of Washington and Fifth with your hands tucked beneath either armpit, alternately bouncing on either foot. The trip to the precinct had taken less time than you anticipated, allowing you to make it to work, albeit three hours late. You received an earful from Gerald, and although you instantly regretted going in, your paycheck later that week would thank you for it. 

Working on the prep for the Wayne Fundraiser gave you plenty of time to simmer in your thoughts. You contemplated getting a taser, or possibly some pepper spray. The idea of a gun crossed your mind fleetingly, but something about it itched you the wrong way. Guns, unless you were competent, was a surefire way to kill someone in self defense. Although this _Joker_ character seemed not above murder himself, you'd rather not take the plunge. 

You had originally planned on stopping by Marco's Surplus on the way home, but per the White Horse Catering norm, you had been stuck at work until the sun sunk beneath the horizon, and Gotham blanketed in early September chill. By the time the bus finally arrived, it was well past dark. 

The route took you a street over from Harlow Park, and you thought of Vinny Dupree. There was no mourning there, but rather the morbid reminder of what _he's_ capable of. Bryan Douglas came to mind, as well. Down that path of thought you imagined how many other people have run into him, _The Joker_. 

_But has he always been this person?_

You didn't know a thing about him, say for his penchant of terror and murder. That should have been enough to know he wasn't worth thinking about, not even the fleeting thought of who he was before he took on the guise, or how he had received the scars on his face, or what his real name was. Your fingers stroked the switchblade in your pocket absently as you stared out the window, digging yourself further into this madness as you remembered that night in the alleyway. 

He killed him. 

But he didn't kill you. 

You felt like you were missing the punchline. Like there was something you didn't catch onto, why he had decided that _you_ were able to walk away and Vinny Dupree's dead body was dumped at the park. The idea that he simply didn't stand for sexual assault seemed a bit ridiculous - a guy like that had to have very little by way of morals. 

You exhaled shakily, and averted your attention across the bus patrons. It was a habit, more so as of late, and unlike last time, you felt the the hairs on your neck raise when you glanced behind you and locked eyes with a strange looking man. It were as though he was already staring at you, and as you turned in your seat you swore you could feel his beady gaze on the back of your head. 

It was fleeting, but you catalogued what you could; average weight, piercing eyes, a grey sweater with the hood over his head. You could feel your heart thumping away in your chest as the bus rolled through each stop, and you and he both remained, as transients sifted in and out of the automatic doors. 

_'West Harlow, Bower and Holt'_

It was your stop, but you sat a beat longer, waiting until the last moment. When you did stand, the stranger did, too.

A surge of fear flooded your veins as you quickly brushed down the isle and to the door, taking a quick moment to glance over your shoulder as you disembarked. When you saw that he was exiting as well, you began briskly making your way down the street. The streetlamps were aglow once more, and you stayed close to them as you moved. Steering clear of the alleyways that you passed, you dared another look. 

Grey sweater, hood up, he was following you, and advancing quick.

You panicked, and veered to the first left, immediately basked in darkness. You knew where you were, and you clutched your fingers around your knife, easing it from the pocket of your jacket without a second thought. It was a harrowing sense of déjà vu that filled you, of living through that moment once before, and knowing the outcome. Thoughts of that night overwhelmed you, and you could hear the sound of his footsteps approaching, quickening. 

In the middle point, halfway between one street and the other, you screamed when the footsteps rushed, and his hand wrapped around your arm too tight, and you twisted around with your pink switchblade in your fist. You weren't looking, your eyes screwed shut as the knife met the yielding plane of his neck through his hood. He gave a shout, his hand around your arm bruising as he jerked away. You heard the sound of cloth tearing, and then you opened your eyes. 

He was bleeding, you could see the way it blackened his sweater in the dark. With a low snarl of a noise the man pushed you back, where you nearly stumbled over your own feet. When the hardness of the brick wall hit your back you retaliated like a flipped switch, a snapped nerve; a swift upward stroke into his stomach had him stall out, gasping and stumbling like you'd seen them do in movies. A warm rush slithered over your hand, and you looked down and realized it was his blood. He was saying something, gargled and wet in his throat as he shifted backwards, the knife slipping from your fingers and stuck into him like a pin in a cushion. 

After his back hit the opposite wall, and he slid down it to settle in a slump, you ran. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I'd like to apologize for how many times I break up the paragraphs with dividers. I'm scatterbrained and it shows in my writing, lol. Secondly, I'd like to reiterate that this fic is probably gonna head down some dark avenues, so please be warned for that. Oh! Also, I do plan on going back and editing, but as of right now I don't have the time (sadly), so I'm preemptively apologizing for grammar mistakes and the like. Thanks for taking a gander at my writing, sure does mean a lot, and I hope you liked this chapter! 
> 
> Concrit is welcome, kudos and feedback are the lifeblood of the author, and you have yourself a lovely day. :)


	4. Friendly Coercion

_“When you walk to the edge of all the light you have and take that first step into the darkness of the unknown, you must believe that one of two things will happen. There will be something solid for you to stand upon or you will be taught to fly.”_

― Patrick Overton

* * *

The blood on your hands had grown tacky, the bit you'd accidently smeared your forehead and cheeks with tightened against your skin uncomfortably. Fumbling with your keys, you made to unlock the door, with your porch light left on again, you could see the way it coated your hand like a partial glove.

There was something to say about that moment; you were trembling, but whatever maelstrom of emotion you should have been feeling was absent. A numbness overtook you as you opened the door and stepped inside, pulling the strap of your satchel purse over your head to toss on the floor. Your jacket followed, pants soon after that. A trail of clothes, some of them smattered with blood, leading to the bathroom. 

It wasn't until after you stood in the shower, the knobs streaked with red after turning the water on, that it came crashing; An intense wave of disgust hit you, spurring you to reach out and crank the hot water to the point it was scalding, hoping to sear away the wave of nausea that shook you, or the persistent imagery of his body slumped against the wall. Scrubbing away at your hands vigorously, bloodied water spiraled down the drain with a pink hue all to reminiscent of that night in the alleyway. 

_But this time, you did it._

You scoured at your skin until it was red, until there was not an inkling of blood left on you, and longer after that.

The water had run cold, and you stood and shivered, letting it pelt down on your head as you contemplated what to do. The initial shock of what you had done had eased up a bit, that itself should have dismayed you - that you weren't drowning in a sea of guilt - but you still trembled with residual adrenaline and your body felt like a livewire, every nerve split and dipped in dread. Realization hit you when you finally reached out and shut the water off - _the knife._

You'd left the knife in the alleyway. The same knife that Lieutenant Gordan had looked at, _held_ , most definitely catalogued in his mind. Your feet nearly slipped as you hastily stepped out of the tub, scrambling for the towel on the rack and wrapping it haphazardly around your body. 

You weren't even sure if your attacker was still _alive_ \- the possibility of death made your stomach flip anxiously, fearfully. 

As you stepped out into the hallway, you absently registered how cold it was before making a beeline to your bedroom. 

Initially, you hoped he _was_ still alive, that he had somehow managed to stumble his way to help. The notion that you killed someone sat uneasy in your chest, heavy like a stone as you rushed through your dresser in search of something to wear. However, if he _were_ still alive, he could go to the police, show them the knife. It was distinct; petite, pink, tied in with an already preexisting murder and Gotham's number one most wanted.

You tugged on a pair of leggings and a T-shirt, pulling your wet hair from beneath the hem, too rushed and chalk full of _what if's_ to bother drying it. 

It was when you turned around, too frazzled to even think straight, that you searched for the knife, the familiarity of it in your pocket a staple of leaving your apartment in the first place. You wouldn't need to carry around that _damn_ thing if scum like the grey sweater man didn't scour Gotham's underbelly like feral dogs. In a fleeting moment, you hoped that he _was_ dead - slumped against the brick wall with the knife still stuck in him. One less monster and your knife would still be there, waiting for you. 

You shook the morbid thought off quick, running your fingers through your hair to snag on the knots as you took a breath. You exhaled with a shudder and made your way back into the living room, in search of your jacket. This time, you registered the chill in the room and instinctively glanced at the door. It was unlocked, forgetting to turn the lock and pull the chain when you entered, you felt a tingle of alarm slither up your spine to rest at the base of your neck. 

"Hiya, _Red_." 

Your breath caught, an eruption of goosebumps shook your body and you quickly made to pivot in place before you were enveloped in a vise grip, the acrid burn of gasoline invading your senses. He had you around the middle, his forearm digging below your ribs as he smacked a gloved hand over your mouth, muffling the instinctive scream you had given. 

" _Shush-sh-sh-_ " He consoled you, his mouth close enough to your ear you could feel his breath. You stood rigid, awkwardly moving with him as he swayed his body side to side. You had wrapped your hands around his arms, making a move to pry him off but you were frozen with fear, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his forearms.

"You ah... _dropped_ this," He slowly released you around the middle, digging his fingers into your cheek as though sending an unspoken warning. You felt too paralyzed to do anything as you stared. In his hand, and still filthy with blood, was your pink switchblade. 

A wash of fresh fear settled inside you - _How?_ Questions were rapid firing but nothing escaped your lips, and if it did, it was a muffled against his palm. 

"Just paying it forward, _Red_. You kept my jacket all _safe_ and _cozy_ in your closet - I bring you back your knife. We're just a couple of, ah, _real good friends_ , don't you think?" He brought his face closer beside yours, admiring the knife in his hand over your shoulder as you shied away and closed your eyes. " _Especially_ when you consider what would've happened if _Gordan_ found this little gem." 

Your attention snapped to the blade, furiously trying to configure the moment, how he knew about Gordan, the knife, _everything_. The sensation of being watched this past week suddenly seemed all to plausible, jolting your heart into a higher gear.

"But you _see_...I'm a _good_ guy. I _saved_ you before, brought you your _trusty_ knife back. Even took the liberty of cleaning up your, ah, _mess_. And what a mess it was, Red." He gave a little laugh, it made you shiver for how malignant it was. "Gotta say, you could use a little work on your _technique_." 

He was still swaying absently; it was hard to breathe, you could feel his chest against your back, the heat of him that radiated through his clothes. If you had half a mind, you'd be able to feel his heartbeat, the way it fluttered with excitement. He hummed some indecipherable tune, like he was dancing with you, before he spoke again. 

"I like you. Got a little bit of a _mean_ _streak_ , and that's somethin' I can relate to." He mused, and you felt repulsed at the idea of relating to him in anyway. "Since we're already _friends_ , I can _expect_ you not to do anything _rash_. Hmm?" 

You swallowed thickly, giving a weak nod. You were thinking of the knife block in the kitchen, the red and silver handled one you use to cut through bone. His hand loosened, and your body wound tight, gearing up to sprint when he paused. 

"It's like I can _see_ those cogs in your head _turning_." He remarked, not fully letting go yet. "Let me _remind_ you, doll - you've got some _blood_ on your hands, now. Best not make a scene. Wouldn't want the _police_ to come knocking."

You hesitated a moment, his words were dripping with sordid insinuation.

_He wouldn't....would he?_

"And no _screaming_ , okay? I'm not really in the _mood_." He tacked on, bringing his mouth too close for comfort. You could feel the faintest touch of his lips against the cusp of your ear, spurring you to jerk your head away and for him to chuckle, the sound vibrating against your back. 

Finally, he let go. He brought his hands up, bloodied knife in his right, and you quickly scrambled away from him. It was with a fierce amount of will that you didn't shout, tear open the door and bolt from your apartment. Instead, you hastily spun in place to face him, your heart stuttering at the sight; the greasepaint on his face had worn in some spots, but there was no mistaking his visage. 

The dim lighting from your kitchen flooded the living room, basking you both in a citrine hue. The last (and first) time you had seen him in person was in the alleyway, where the streetlights offered barely enough light to make out his features. The paint was garish, making him look more monster than man, the gnarled flesh of his scars accentuated with crimson and the shadows that played on his face.

Seeing him standing there, looming with his purple trench and pre-bloodied knife in hand, was something of a nightmare. You tried not to think about how long he had been there, how soon after you stepped into the shower he had simply let himself in your apartment. 

"Not really feeling the _warm welcome_ I was expecting, Red - I'm a little _disappointed_." He began, quirking his head to the side with a strange flick of his tongue. He swept it over his bottom lip, as though tracing the scar there. "What with our _history_ , and all." 

"What do you want?" You bit back, unthinking. He raised his brows, and casually closed the pink switchblade in hand. A modicum of relief went through you, but it wasn't enough to calm your rapid heart. He slipped the blade into his pocket, joining the others you knew were there. 

"Getting right down to business - _I like that._ " He grinned, flashing his yellowed teeth. "Let's just say I've got a, uh... _business_ proposition." 

"I'm not in the business of murder." You replied, forcing a steadiness to your voice. "I've...I've got nothing to help you with." 

"I just _clean up_ your resume, _sweetheart_." He countered, a playful lilt in his voice. "Could use some _work_ , but you get points for aim. It _was_ your first time, right?" He was advancing, slowly but surely, and you couldn't help but move in response, slowly backing yourself against the door. 

"Nicked the carotid, got a little _messy_ after that. _You know,_ If I didn't know any better, I'd say you ah, _wanted_ to kill him."

"I didn't - I didn't want to kill him." You argued, shoulders grazing the door. 

"You sure? There's some _motive_ there. Bet _Gordan'll_ catch on _real_ quick. Attacked a week before - same alleyway. Next time, you go ahead and _bite back."_

"No, it was self defense. It was...I didn't want to kill him." 

He rose his brows and gave a tilt of his head, offering you a look that read, _'you sure about that?'_ , and it made your blood boil. 

"Acceptance is on the path to uh, _enlightenment_." He broke the word apart as he said it, and you felt appalled at the notion. 

"That's enough - I've had enough." You countered, "You need to leave, _right now._ Or I'll-"

"You'll what? _Stab me?_ You _could_ use the practice." He cut you off with a sickening grin, and you began searching for the doorknob with your hand, smoothing it across the wood. "How'd it feel, hmm? It's been a _while_ since my first." 

"Fuck you." You spat, before finding the knob and twisting it.

You made to turn around, yanking the door open and letting in a wall of brisk midnight air. He advanced quick, like his body was geared to pounce the entire time, slamming the door shut and narrowly missing your fingers which had wrapped around it. He pressed his chest against your back, wedging you tight as he snatched your wrist and held you down, your other arm trapped between the wood and your torso. 

"I'll bet it was _freeing_." He breathed, his stature dwarfing yours and you could feel his breath on the crown of your head. "You've probably thought about it before - city like _Gotham_ , no one's going to miss the odd _rapist_ or two. Really, it's a _public service_ , hmm?" 

_One less monster._

You felt sick to your stomach, nowhere to go and trapped between the door and him, you couldn't help but think about what you _did_ feel in that moment, the memories fresh; while disgust was there, abhorrence at your own actions, the concerning trace of liberation had also wormed it's way beneath your skin since. You hadn't felt an inkling of remorse for the man, rather the heightened sense of self-preservation in retrieving your blade, cutting your ties to his murder. 

The idea that he may be right - this monster of a man, Gotham's current scourge, and your unconventional savior running on _twice_ now - was enough to shake your resolve. You twisted against the door, the hard angles of his body and whatever was in his jacket digging into your back uncomfortably. 

" _Ah-ta-ta,_ " He tutted, firmly securing your wrist against the door. "I think we need to, ah, _clear the air_ first." 

The realization that he was not there to kill you seemed to hit home then. He mentioned a business proposition, but for the life of you, you couldn't imagine what you could offer to a man like _him_. Gathering whatever semblance of calm you had left, you asked, "What do you want with me?" 

"Ah, _finally_ \- here I thought we'd have to do this the _hard_ way." 

"You said...you had a _business proposition_. I don't know who you think I am, but I'm no one. I can't help with... _whatever_ _it is_ you're trying to do." You explained, voice wavering despite your best efforts. 

"Right on _one_ count. You're _no one_ , just another downtrodden _Gothamite."_ A pang of hurt made itself known among the myriad of emotions you felt, and you hated that it affected you the way it did. "But you're _just_ the _nobody_ I need, right now." 

He sounded like he was being complimentary, his tone taking on a saccharine type of sweetness. 

" _Now_ , I'm going to let you go, and we can try this again, _hmm?"_ He dipped his head down, speaking in your ear again. The vibration of his voice made you shiver involuntarily, like a feather just barely skimming along the surface of your skin - your gut twisted with distaste. "Be a _good girl,_ okay?"

With that, he took a step back, allowing you a wide enough berth to turn around and face him, your back still pressed flush against the door. 

"How do I know you won't kill me, after I help you?" Was the first thing out of your mouth, the words detached from thought and spilling from your lips on their own volition. 

_You're not really considering it...are you?_

"Let's uh, _revisit_ that topic. How's about you prove your _usefulness_ , first? Gotta start somewhere." He dismissed your question, and it was with a nonchalance that both angered and terrified you. "I need to know you aren't going to _high tail_ to Gordan first chance you get." 

"I.." You hesitated, and he pumped his eyebrows near comically, waiting for you to finish your sentence, _to agree_. Something in you found it hard to acquiescence - maybe it was your conscious. 

"How very _noble_ of you - must have a bit of a _moral compass_ tucked in there, underneath all that _murderous intent._ " He jeered, and you bristled.

It was doused in contempt, and something about the way he looked at you, like he was peering right down into your very soul, made you want to prove him wrong. Your response was fueled by heat of the moment retaliation, thoughtless and, retrospectively, the need to prove yourself. Admittedly, proving yourself to him seemed a near fruitless labor, there was no telling if he'd keep to his word and not decide to tie up whatever loose end you'd leave.

"I won't." 

"That's a _sweet_ sentiment, doll." He replied. The way he sprinkled in the pet-names was quickly grating on your nerves. "But I'm not really _convinced_. I think I'm going to hold onto your knife, keep it nice and safe with me. Think of it as...well, as a _cautionary collateral."_

_To answer your earlier question: he would._

You were torn between wanting to stab him (the irony of it not lost on you), and wanting to bolt out of the apartment and as far from him as you could. It surprised you, how this man wormed his way under your skin, prodded at your insecurities and pinned down exactly what you had felt after killing that man. It was probably because he knew _exactly_ how you felt, having experienced his fair share of murder - the sickening realization did not bode well with the fear that had embedded itself within you. 

There was also the entire predicament you had unintentionally landed yourself in. You had no choice but to agree. It was either that, or get muddled up in what you only imagined would be murder charges. You had a feeling you'd be trading in one evil for an even greater one.

The big question still hung in the air; _what did he want with you?_

"Just...tell me what you want." 

His grin split his face, wide and self-satisfied as he reached out and pat his hand against your cheek. Bryan Douglas came to mind. 

_"attagirl."_

You curled away, and he continued without missing a beat. "Why don't you tell me a little bit about your newest, ah, _illustrious_ client?" 

_Client?_ You stalled out a moment, your brain misfiring after everything that's already happened. 

"The Wayne Fundraiser?" You offered after a moment, and he nodded his head. 

_"Bingo."_

This already read wrong, there was a glimmer of what you could only describe as deviant mirth in his eyes. He was planning something big, that you knew, and with his documented track record (GCN was having a field day with the coverage), it could only be something horrendous. Worse than the bank robbery at Gotham National, worse than Bryan Douglas' publicised demise - 

_and you'll have a hand in it, if you help him._

"Wayne's booked us to cater his fundraiser...I don't know much else except it's for some district attorney. Dent, I think." 

_What choice do you have?_

"This _catering_ business - it gives access to _Wayne's_ penthouse?" He pushed, and you could see the way his mouth twitched with impatience. You hesitated a moment, doubling back as quick as you could in your head, and the way he narrowed his eyes seemed as good as a shout in terms of _'speak up.'_

Something about him made you hesitant to lie, like he could read your thoughts just by looking at your face, pick apart whatever you say and decipher the truth. It was an unnerving situation, where you struggled to balance your desire to live and your desire to do the right thing. 

"Y-Yes. But I don't have the access information. My boss, Gerald. He's got all that information locked up." You rushed. 

The intensity of his glare made you feel scrutinized, picked apart, utterly and completely _seen_. 

"Let's see how _useful_ you are, doll." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this chapter kicked my ass and then some. I had intended on writing longer chapters starting here, but I've got an unquenchable thirst for cliffhangers and my brain was fighting me hard on this one. Apologies if it's a bit of a mess, I hope the essence of it read through. Thank you for taking the time to read, it means a great deal to me! 
> 
> Feedback and kudos are massively appreciated and concrit is completely welcome. :)


	5. Friendly Coercion II

You stood aimlessly in your living room, the droning tick of the clock had gradually become the metronome to your galloping heart. It took some time after he left your apartment, taking his unnerving aura with him, but eventually you moved. It was automatic, your feet shuffling forward where you stooped down and plucked your bloodied sweater off the floor. Without hesitation, you picked up the t-shirt and jeans you'd hastily tore from your body earlier that night, stuffing them in the crook of your arm. Socks came next. You bypassed the bathroom and went to your room, swiping the towel up from the rounded wooden bedpost you'd slung it over. 

It was hard to ignore the way your gut twisted, or the way your fingers trembled as you stuffed the clothes into the stacked washer of the closet. It felt like anticipation gone wrong, morbific excitement in how it could be compared to _butterflies_. It'd been some time since you felt this anxious over something, and although it wasn't the lighthearted notion of a presentation or the first day at a new job, it held the same nervous, excited nuance. 

You started the laundry and absently made your way back into the living room. The door was unlocked, and you stood a moment and pondered about the dangers of leaving it that way. Could there really be anything worse, any other monster out there more terrifying than the one you'd just signed on to work with? The one who stood in your living room, caged you in his grip and breathed down your neck. The strange dance from earlier came to mind - when he hummed in your ear, and you could taste the leather of his glove over your mouth, feel the heat of his body against your back. The acrid scent of greasepaint and gasoline still lingered. 

It was tangible, but somehow it seemed more and more like a surreal nightmare. You approached the door and flicked the lock, the chain following suit. With a steadying breath, you leaned your forehead against the hollow wood and tried not to drown with the maelstrom of it all, the rapid fire succession of everything that's happened, everything that lies implied between the lines, and everything that was _still_ to happen. 

* * *

"What about after? If I get this for you - If I... _help_ you, what happens then?" 

"Still _hung_ _up_ on that? Ever tried to, ah, _live in the moment_ , doll?" 

He made it sound like it was the easiest thing in the world; disregarding consequence, morals, just _doing_ without a care in the world. 

The Joker had his back to you, his looming stature casually perusing your quaint apartment. He'd said something about returning before the end of the week, before the day of Wayne's Fundraiser. It was hard to keep track of everything, your head already swimming. He stopped when you asked, reaching out to pluck a picture frame off the narrow table beside the door - if was of you, surrounded by friends the day after you'd graduated culinary. When your hopes were shot higher than the ropes of reality could reach. 

"Let's consider this your... _internship_." He said, setting the picture down before he turned to face you.

You stuttered, thrown off by the insinuation, "What if I don't want to join... _whatever_ it is you have. I'm just some random _Gothamite_ , you said it yourself - _no one._ " 

He licked his lip, quirking his head to the side as though assessing you. The way his eyes, the black pits of them, scanned down the length of your body made you shiver. It was that same sensation of being stripped bare, of being seen entirely. 

"I'm a fan of _cliché_ \- a good _underdog_ story is a _Hell_ of a crowd pleaser, _sweetheart_." He slowly approached you, and your feet felt cemented to the carpet, the will to back up or shy away lost in the intensity of his glare. "The _real_ message, I think, is the _tenacity_ of the _hero,"_ he clenched his gloved hands before him on emphasis, the way he said _hero;_ like it left a bad taste in his mouth. 

"A _good_ story'll catch the, ah, _paramount_ of the plight. The importance of _succeeding_ \- it's always a _life or death_ scenario." 

_'life or death'_ felt like a poorly veiled threat. 

You swallowed thickly and tried to focus on his face. It grew more discomforting the closer he got. His scars, painted crimson with their jagged flesh looked as though they never healed at all, the shadows that danced across his garish features made him appear nothing shy of demonic. Your heart, there was no calming it, no shoving down the insistent sensation that it would burst in your ribcage for how hard it worked. 

When he reached out and took your chin in his grasp, his gloved thumb pressing in the divot below your lower lip, you flinched. 

"The _good_ _hero_ never has a _choice_." He was too close, you were transfixed.

You remembered the first time you saw him, you thought he had kindly eyes; the shape of them, the darkness he harbored could have been mistaken for warmth in the shadowed alleyway, but now they only held an ardor that read lethal. 

"I'm no hero...and neither are you." You breathed, and the words snagged on your teeth, fear the rein that held them back, but you forced them out with stuttering intonation nonetheless. The Joker looked at you for a moment, one that felt like an eternity, before a smile split his face. He leaned in closer, and this time you did shy away - his nose brushed against yours. 

" _Everyone's_ a hero in their own eyes, Red." 

" _Nothing_ you've done is heroic. You're a killer, a-a _psycho_." You countered, trying to focus past the encompassing scent of him - beyond the gasoline and paint, you think you smelt a hint of cologne. Cedar? It felt too human, too real. 

"You didn't answer my _question_ \- how'd it _feel,_ killing that man?" His breath ghosted down your face, and he emanated heat that seemed to burn your skin for how close he was. 

You hesitated to answer. He already knew. Your brain felt as though it were misfiring, a collective string of thoughts that jumbled together and _yes_ he was terrifying, but _why_ does it feel as though you're being coaxed in by some strange gravitational pull? Like the depths of a blackhole slowly enveloping you. 

He hummed and gave you a pointed look, "It's the _pot_ calling the _kettle_ _black_ \- but who's to say shuffling one _miscreant_ off to an early _retirement_ is _wrong?"_

The fact that he was condoning your actions wasn't surprising - it's you, finding inclination to agree, that was. 

"I...I don't know." It came as a whisper, and you squared a questioning gaze with him on instinct. 

"But _I_ do - it's your _precious_ Lieutenant Gordan, the whole of Gotham's _pathetic_ excuse for _order._ It's _vigilantes_ that call themselves _hero's_." His grip on your chin tightened, and it ached in the back of your mind. There was fire in his eyes - a terrifying zeal, passion threaded with malignance and murderous intent. It was spellbinding, like a deer entranced by the headlights of a car before it's struck. "And what are _we_ , a bunch of _pawns_ and _disregarded_ , to do but _play_ their little game? _Not me_ , no. _I'm_ going to shine _light_ on Gotham, show everyone their _true colors. And you're gonna help me."_

He shuffled in closer, tilting your head back. You followed the movement, and _God_ if there was ever a moment where you were sure your heart would simply throw in the towel, it was then. He smiled blithely, looking too kind as he let go of your chin and laid his palm against your cheek. You inhaled with a shudder. 

"You aren't just _any_ nobody, Red. No, _you_ -" he brushed your hair from your face, and the strange twist of repulsion and the not unpleasant shiver that trickled down your spine rendered you struck for a myriad of reasons. When he leaned down, your breath caught. "You're a _murderer_." 

_He's right._

" _Luckily_ for _you_ , we aren't much for _background checks._ " The Joker stood straight, taking a single step back but his legs were long, and it distanced you enough that you felt you could breathe again. He flashed you a yellowed grin and proceeded to slip a hand into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. " _Equal opportunity,_ and all that."

He procured a phone, a black flip Nokia which he tossed at you and you barely caught. You stared at in your hand, glancing up you see him tug the lapel of his trench coat, broad shoulders shimmying for comfort before he swept a tangle of green hair from his face. His smile was wicked. 

"See you soon, Red." 

He left, just like that. Turned, stepped out of the apartment, and let the door swing to a shut. It rattled in the frame. 

* * *

The phone was on the floor, you don't remember dropping it. 

_What have you gotten yourself into?_

You would argue that you didn't ask for any of this. You hadn't anticipated anyone to come to your rescue that night, and of all the people in Gotham it _had_ to be him. With everything that's preceded that night, it was growing harder to believe it was mere coincidence that brought him in your time of need. There was no telling if he'd conjured whatever he had planned for the fundraiser before or after you came along - it made a world of difference, and yet very little at the same time. You were still caught up in this snare, trapped into working with The Joker in order to save your own hide.

The question of your morals surfaced with the onslaught of information, but it was a question you'd rather remain ambiguous, even to yourself. But there was no denying the way you'd felt when you killed him, the sense of _just_ that came with biting back. It was a frightful rush of adrenaline, rendering you numb, not unlike the way you felt when he was holding your face, when you were trapped in the blazing spell of his gaze.

You were trembling, like your body couldn't quite contain the cacophony of confliction within you, ready to burst at the seams with it; you knew the right thing to do was go to Gordan, but the consequences that could - _would_ inflict range from murder charges to _God knows_ what The Joker would do. A piece of you didn't regret it, what you'd done. It reveled in the retaliation, considered it defensible because who else would do it?

How someone could be pulled in so many directions was exhausting, draining, _frustrating_. 

The Joker was right on one count, though; Gotham's corrupt on every level, but that also included _him_. Still, intrigue circled the outskirts of your mind, peering with curiosity. What would he do? Could one man really make such a difference, and who's to say the difference he'd make would be _better?_

_He would._

You weren't so sure. 

You picked up the phone, and opened it. The single contact in the phone was unnamed, but it didn't need a label to make your chest tighten the way it did. And _there_ was the final piece atop your teetering tower of _compos mentis;_ the allure. 

Perhaps it was his voice, the eccentric idiosyncrasy of it that poked and prodded at your mind with the edge of danger and something you could only consider charisma. You didn't know a time when you'd ever felt so thoroughly encompassed in fear - you still felt the prickling sensation at your fingertips, your scalp, the back of your neck. He was dread incarnate, but you gravitated to him like you'd been entranced, and you don't really know _why_. 

_Because he was dangerous?_

You pushed the thought away as you closed the phone and set it down on the console table, beside the door. Glancing at the clock, and with a defeated sigh, you resigned to sleep being a rarity. You were a livewire, and the alarm on your bedside would chirp in less than two hours. 

_Work_ , where you'd sneak into the back of the kitchen, slip into Gerald's office and find the information you needed - _he needed_ \- and then...you weren't sure. You think that was scariest of all, not knowing what happens after everything. Would he change his mind, decide you weren't _quite_ the asset he needed? What if he decided you _were?_ What would he have you do? More unknown variables, more things to fear about. A headache was brewing, strong enough it felt it'd split your skull right down the middle. 

You took a couple asprin. The water felt like a salve on your dry throat. Leaning over the sink, fingers gripped at the edges of the counter, you took a few deep breaths and resisted the urge to throw up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter again. I'll try and write a longer chapter next time, but felt I needed to post what I have written thus far. Hope you liked it, thank you for taking the time to read. Posted 10/14/2020.


	6. Perspective

_“I know how to be the witness to her grief. I don't know how to be this kind of villain.”_  
― Holly Black

* * *

With exhaustion heavy in your joints and the unseen strain of no sleep tugging away at your eyes, you opened the door to your apartment and nearly walked into Jeremy, his hand raised with the intent to knock. His sudden appearance jolted you a bit, illuminated with your porch light in the early hours of the morning, waking you just enough to offer the hollowest smile you’d ever given.

Somehow, it felt wrong to even feign happiness.

“Jeremy, what’re you doing here?” You stepped out as he stepped back, his long legs nearly taking him off the stoop of the porch.

“Hey, good morning. I was just—well I wanted to stop by and see if everything’s… _alright?”_ He offered, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. For once, he was fully dressed; his hair was still an unkempt tousle of brown, but in favor of baggy pajamas and bare feet he was dawned in dark jeans and a pair of faded black converse. The ungainly charm of him, however, was still worn on his sleeve.

When you failed to reply, your thought process scattered from here to nowhere, he continued. “You asked me, yesterday morning—strange guy, trench coat? I think I saw him, last night.” Jeremy recalled. A spike of alarm ran through your head at that, knowing Jeremy had seen him wandering outside the apartments, oblivious to the danger of it.

Was it when he lurked outside the apartment, waiting for you to let your guard down before opening the door and waltzing in? 

“You didn’t say anything to him, did you?”

Jeremy shook his head, “No, he was here real quick last night. I thought about calling the cops—“

“Don’t—don’t call the cops.” You interjected quick, quick enough that Jeremy gave you a concerned look you'd never seen on him. He thinned his lips, pulling a hand from his pocket to brush away the hair that fell in his face.

_Don’t ask, don’t ask_

“He an ex? I mean, if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t need to—obviously, I’m just a neighbor. I just…I heard noise from your apartment, not good noises. He wasn't outside when I looked again, and I figured he left until I heard them. I wasn’t listening in a _weird_ way or anything—“ Jeremy rushed, and the way he stumbled his way through the sentence, backtracking and inexpertly mending whatever didn’t sound right would have been endearing, if you weren’t pressed with The Joker bursting into your life and everything _that_ entailed.

“My sister, she uh—she had some issues with her ex. I know it was really hard on her, and not that I’m an expert or anything on the issue, but—“

“Jeremy.” You said, gently.

He faltered, then shook his head, “Sorry. What I’m trying to say is, I’m here…if you need me.”

His sincerity seemed to throw you off kilter. In a brevity of desperation, you were going to tell him; the attack in the alleyway, the grey sweater man, how you had stabbed someone and killed them. Jeremy had a kindly disposition, he exuded friendliness and he _looked_ like he would understand. He _looked_ like he would wrap you up in a hug and offer comfort, give archaic advice that would somehow be the answer of getting out of the web you had been entangled in. Or maybe it was that sinking feeling of desperation in you that painted your neighbor in such a compassionate light. Regardless, he looked like someone who _genuinely_ cared.

Then _he_ came to mind, and whatever Jeremy could say or do wouldn’t be enough to detach you from the maw of _that_ monster. If anything, it would put Jeremy in danger—the Joker had known everything since that fateful night in the alleyway, and he would surely know if you let slip _current events_ to your neighbor. Jeremy didn’t have the fallback of information, and he certainly didn’t hold the cold demeanor of a killer. The Joker would tie up that loose end with his eyes closed, as insignificant as swatting a fly from the air.

It was hard to hold it back, and you could very nearly feel the pressure of it all swell behind what you hoped was a calm mask.

You were grateful for Jeremy’s kindness, regardless on your ability to utilize it.

“I....I really appreciate that, Jeremy.” You breathed, he smiled gently. The silence stretched for a moment, although the tension in the air rang innocuous, a sharp juxtaposition to how you’d been feeling these past few days.

“I realized something stupid today.” He shuffled in place. The puffs of his and your breath intermingled, floated up in one big mass of vapor. His nose was red, and you realized that his cheeks were, too. Under the wings of his overgrown hair, his ears as well.

“What’s that?” You humored him, and Jeremy let out a chuckle, the sound a smooth timbre you’d never really appreciated. 

“We’ve been neighbors for, what, two years now? I was going to call you, when I saw that guy outside. _Then_ I realized that I don’t have your phone number.” He explained. 

You couldn’t help but find the humor in it; surely he’d meant it any other way that wasn’t him hitting on you, but you felt a bit delirious with recent events, and exhaustion was a heavy fog on your mind. You blanked, and then you laughed, unabashed and Jeremy’s face was as red as a tomato.

“That sounds bad.“ He sighed, and you nodded as you willed the laughter to subside. He looked a bit mortified, and you wanted to reach out and assure him you weren’t laughing at him, but something in you wanted to revel in the lightheartedness of it all, even for a moment longer.

“ _Okay_ , now that I’ve _thoroughly_ embarrassed myself..” Jeremy drew the words out, making to bid adieu but you quickly reached out and stopped him, grabbing his arm gently.

“I’m sorry, it’s not funny, but—“

“It also totally is.” He offered, and you nodded again. Jeremy snorted a laugh, “Could’ve worked, though, huh?”

“It was very charming, yes.” You said, after gathering yourself. “But you’re right. I don’t have your number, and we should probably fix that.” His expression lightened, and you couldn’t shake the youthful nuance that came in that moment. Like kissing under the bleachers in elementary school, or pitching a makeshift tent in the woods when you’re ten— _innocent_. Jeremy simply radiated with it, and you welcomed how refreshing it was. 

“I left my phone inside, should I?” He gestured toward his door.

“No, I have mine—“ You made to dig out your regular phone from your pocket, and out came the black Nokia along with it. It clattered on the cold pavement of your porch, right beside Jeremy’s foot. He dipped down and picked it up, and you didn’t know what fear it stemmed from, but you shoved your regular phone back into your pocket before he could see it.

“Holy shit, I haven’t seen one of these since I was a kid.” Jeremy teased. You stifled a discontented noise as he flipped it open. His thumbs clicked away, presumably bringing up the contact list as he paused and then snorted a laugh. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say this is a burner phone. How long ago'd you get this?" Your heart leapt at that, mouth open to reply but you felt tongue-tied. 

Mercifully, Jeremy closed the phone and offered it to you, which you took possibly on the side of too eager. 

"Yesterday. I...I broke my old phone, dropped it on the walk home." You lied. The phone burned in your hand, like the urge to delete Jeremy's number off the wretched thing was as tangible as touching a hot coal. Jeremy nodded with understanding you were, once again, genuinely struck with. 

"Well, good call on that brick—it's cheap and you could _probably_ crush it under a semi, and it'd _still_ work." He grinned, and you feigned a small smile in return. 

The cold was starting to bite through your jacket, the circulation that came with your brisk morning walk absent as you and Jeremy stood close on the stoop of your porch for a moment longer. He lingered about like he wanted to say something else. You had half wanted him to, to distract you from going to work and continuing the job you'd apprehensively resolved to take. The job was _also_ the reason your feet itched move, and for the twisting sensation of anticipation that sat heavy behind your sternum. 

"I should—I should go." You gestured toward the stairs with an apologetic smile. 

"Yeah, same." He nodded quick, "I'm _incredibly_ busy, I mean—you wouldn't _believe_ how busy." He backed up toward the step, his suave parody nearly tripping him down the stairs before he caught his balance and looked to you. He gaped a moment, as though surprised he actually caught himself, and then he laughed.

When you joined in, for a brief moment, the twisting went away. 

* * *

White Horse Catering was nestled between Harper's Boutique and a sporting goods store that showcased the same silver plated golf set in the window year round. The complex was outdated, settled on the same quaint side street deep in Midtown for longer than you'd been alive. The crumbling orange brickwork of it was deceiving in it's rustic charm, and the occupants of the shops did their best to frill up their display windows and the separating pilaster's with décor in accordance to every season. It was early September, which in business terms meant as good as Halloween season. The mannequin in Harper's window was dressed in a black and purple witch costume, the silken material reflected the orange fairy light's they'd bordered the window with. The sporting goods store, _Mitch's_ , had placed a throng of plastic jack-o-lanterns around the golf set.

White Horse Catering was barren, not a single pumpkin or window cling in sight. The lights were on in the kitchen, and as you approached the door you caught a glimpse of bustling shadows through the stained windows of the grey swinging doors inside. An unwelcome rush of nervousness overcame you then, knowing you'd have to go in there and continue your work as though the last few days hadn't happened the way they did, and you weren't walking around with the weight of murder and The Joker's implacable gaze on your shoulders.

You didn't just _feel_ like a criminal, at this point you _were_ one. 

_Then getting the information shouldn't be that hard._

You steeled yourself with a chilled breath and unlocked the door. The vestibule was shadowed, sunlight barely stretching it's way onto the faux wood flooring of the small room. The air in the front of the shop was frigid, and as you pushed open the door and entered the kitchen, you found it was nearly just as freezing inside as it was out.

The kitchen looked an absolute mess; whatever stainless steel surface there was was either covered in leftover scraps of food or dotted with trays of prepared appetizers. You weaved through your bustling associates, off in their own heads and scarcely acknowledging your arrival. Through a cloud of savory, then a mist of saccharine sweet, past a butcher counter with flayed roast and prosciutto and nearly colliding right into a walking tray of freshly shucked scallops. 

"Sorry!" You reached out and steadied her by the shoulder. A relieved laugh burst from her lips, and she looked at you first with amusement, then her weathered features hardened. 

"Better hurry and tie that apron on, Gerald is in it today." Charlotte shifted with the tray. "Turned off the heat when he came in, says we need to prioritize power. ' _If we're cooking as much as we should be, we'll be warm'."_ She recalled his words with mock haughtiness. 

"Only this place would have a power-outage over baking _tapas_ and keeping the employees warm." You rolled your eyes.

Charlotte agreed with a knowing hum, and with a jut of her sharp chin she gestured to the back of the shop. Her silver hair was frayed, tugging itself free from the bun at the base of her neck, her hairnet hanging on by quite literally a thread. You wondered when she came into work, how early Gerald had called and presumably ordered it. He didn't call you, and you weren't sure if you should be grateful or worried about that. 

"Go on, we need hands on prep." 

"Yes ma'am." You teased. She shifted once more to swat you on the arm before you brushed past her and toward the back of the kitchen. 

You could hear Gerald shouting from his cave at the end of the poorly lit hall as you made for the cramped breakroom a few paces from his door, opposite side. Someone walked out of the office, and your heart rocketed even though you hadn't actually _done_ anything yet, but he was lanky and he had hair, unlike Gerald's stout and balding presence. It was blonde, tied in a loose ponytail to trail to the middle of his back. Scruff adorned his jaw. He was new, and you didn't know his name, but you knew Gerald had been putting out posts for a dishwasher position. It seemed your boss found another unwitting soul, and the blonde man was getting a feel for the unappetizing atmosphere if the scowl on his face was anything to go by. 

The look of caution he threw your way as he brushed past you was steadily disheartening whatever determination you had. 

"Asshole mode." He mouthed as he walked past, gesturing behind him a pointed thumb. You thought, _when isn't he?_

You draped your satchel purse on an already occupied hook and began shucking off your jacket to join it. You thought about how to get into Gerald's office, where the information might be, if it was actually _useful_ for what the Joker had in mind, and the unnerving possibility that it might _not_ be. You tied your apron around your waist, twisted your hair into a bun and then your phone beeped—It wasn't the chirp of your regular phone. 

Timidly, like the old Nokia was as dangerous as a live bomb, you plucked it from the pocket of your jacket. You opened it warily, like you expected it to blow, or there were dreadful images awaiting, or pernicious information of mob workings—

**523 Kings Dale**

An address. You swallowed thickly. He meant today, he had to. You only had _today_ to get the information. He said he'd come to you, and you weren't sure which was worse now; finding him in your apartment again or venturing off the beaten, terrifying path into _his_ world. And what if it doesn't happen? The thought of going empty handed made you feel lightheaded. You needed more time, you _thought_ you had more time but he changed the rules, cut your leash shorter with a location _and_ deadline. You thought you might be sick again, the phone pinged in your hand. You nearly dropped it. 

**Hop along Red. You've got work to do**

You bristled, glancing over your shoulder to see nothing. Nothing but the empty, dirty white and green walls of the hallway. Then Gerald's voice came booming from across the way, and it was your name he shouted with a note of unmistakable vitriol. For a moment, _and it was just a moment_ , fluttering and brief and shooed away like a troublesome wisp, you thought you'd rather deal with the Joker than whatever your boss had in wait. It was quick, because Gerald wouldn't flay you alive or toss you off the nearest, tallest building—at least you knew his threats were empty, stuffed to the brim with whatever supercharged ego being a downtrodden kitchen manager bestowed. 

You sighed sharply and flipped the phone shut, absently stuffing it into the pocket of your uniform pants. Stealing a moment of reprise, a seconds worth all the time you were given, you closed your eyes and willed up whatever _fucked_ iteration of courage you needed to go through with it all. 

Gerald reminded you a bit of those statues you'd find in Italian restaurants; the jolly chefs with rounded bellies and a voluptuous ceramic mustache, proudly cradling a pizza in one hand, the other notched at the hip with a frozen grin of culinary mirth. Except Gerald was not jolly, he handled his food in ways that would sour even the most lenient of food inspectors, and mirth seemed to apply only when he was breathing down your neck and contemptibly pointing out every flaw you made. His mustache was frazzled and unkempt, like he'd been struck by a bolt of lightning. If his hair wasn't buzzed to the scalp, you imagined it would sprout from his head in tufts of wiry black. The thought stuck with you as you approached the office, the gleam off his bald spot reflected with the yellow light above him. 

"I don't appreciate the sneakin' around. Not to mention— _you're_ _late_." Gerald scarcely looked at you, his attention pinpointed to the binder open on his desk.

A quick glimpse and you saw it was the menu template for the upcoming fundraiser, different iterations laid out before him, presumably taken from the empty laminate sleeve. You weren't well-versed in the paperwork aspect of the events, but you had enough sense to know whatever you needed was in that binder. 

"I wasn't sneaking around." You absently replied.

He stuffed the templates back into the binder and abruptly closed it. The paper sheathed in the front read, 'WAYNE ENTERPRISES - DENT FUNDRAISER'. You looked at it with a sort of longing, wishing it were as easy as reaching out and sweeping it right of the desk. Gerald laid a fat hand on top of it, and pointed the other at you. 

"You're walkin' on thin ice, you know that? Calling out how you did should've been your last straw—fuck, I could have that _idiot_ Liam fill in for you. He's a dishwasher who don't know the difference from a paring knife and a fillet, but at least he shows up for his damn shift. You're real lucky we got this event; need all the hands we can get, even the unreliable ones..."

He kept going, _on and on_ and he wasn't even _looking_ at you anymore. Normally you'd have the grace to let his words brush over you like a poisonous cloud; you'd brace the storm and shake it off and go about your day. 

But today felt different, today _was_ different. You were steadily boiling beneath the surface for days, your body felt like a livewire of terrible anticipation and anxiety, and Gerald's biting tone was adding heat to your fire. Your anger trickled from beneath the lid and seeped out of you, white hot. With everything already happening, and despite your boss having not an inkling to your trouble, you resented him more than anything in that moment. He was using his mediocre shoes to step down on everyone in this place, to kick you when you were already struggling. 

"If this fundraiser is so _damn_ important than why don't you just leave me alone and let me do my work?" You snapped. 

Gerald was silent for a moment; mouth agape, his mustache twitched on his upper lip like he was going to sneeze. His beady eyes lost their edge and he was struck for a second. It was a _glorious_ , wonderful second and the feeling of pride stirred in your belly, laid dormant for years. You resisted the urge to smile. 

"You listen to me—" Gerald pushed himself to stand, and despite being such a short man he was broad, and his demeanor was veering to intimidating. You backed up a step, uncomfortable with the enclosed space, with his mass that seemed to swallow up the entirety of the grubby office, with the returned sharpness in his eyes that sliced that little scintilla of pride to pieces. "Start looking for work. After this," he pointed to the binder, "you're through. _Done_. I could give half a fuck if you walked out of this place right now. You're replaceable, I could find someone off the fucking street who could do your job, probably better than you can. Be grateful I'm even giving you another paycheck."

You were the one to be struck, then. It was a strange mixture of relief and worry; you'd been itching to quit the place for a while, and although it wasn't as gratifying as throwing your apron in his face ( _there's still time_ , you thought) it was an out. More of a shove against your shoulders rather than a premeditated resignation, but the end result was the same. You wouldn't be toeing around a workplace that was steeped in low class tyranny, but you'll scramble to gain your footing in the aftermath. 

All that was well and grand, but as your attention darted from Gerald's irate glare, you looked at the binder; you still needed to take that, _today_. 

"Fine." You bit. 

_'Fuck you'_ was on the tip of your tongue, but that would get you kicked out of the kitchen faster than explaining to the Joker why you _didn't_ get the information. You had to stick around, long enough to swipe up the binder and that was that—you couldn't imagine what else the clown would need you for, and so long as you did what he wanted, you'd be able to leave behind White Horse Catering and hopefully your ties to _him_. So you held your vitriolic remarks, and you backed your way out of the office, and Gerald watched you do so with a smugness that poked at whatever malignance was inside you.

You imagined taking one of the 8" chefs knifes from it's steel block and running it through Gerald's protruding belly, and it would cut through him like butter because Gerald made sure, every day, that the knives were sharpened. You couldn't leave unless it was done, and the irony of it was satisfying in a way that made you giddy as equally as disturbed. You left quickly after, distancing yourself from those thoughts—blood, dried and tacky on your fingers, spiraling down the drain in pink and the intoxicating adrenaline that came with it—and you went to work. 

You brushed past the dishwasher, carrying a teetering stack of metal Bain-marie's taller than your torso. He didn't say anything if he heard, but you caught the small smile on his lips as you rounded him. Charlotte was bent over a counter, rolling out dough for a bruschetta. Tomatoes and fresh basil sat beside her in colanders, and you bee-lined to the vegetables and got to work. The older woman glanced at you, knowing, as you washed your hands in the conjoined sink. You said nothing as you slipped the chef's knife out of the block and plucked a freshly rinsed tomato from the others. 

The day stretched on, the heat of the kitchen steadily rising as the sun did. By noon, the place was sweltering, and you could feel the perspiration bead at your brows as you kneaded a hearty ball of sourdough. Periodically, you found yourself glancing in the direction of the office, picturing the binder sat on the desk still, imagining the relief you'd feel when it get's tucked away in your satchel purse. Gerald had been circling the kitchen like a vulture, swooping in and pecking at the workers with harsh criticism, and the occasional inappropriate remark. 

Not only was your boss the definition of appalling, but he was also a creep, to boot. You watched him, the abhorrent way his beady eyes lingered on the other girls of the kitchen. The sweat that trickled down his temples, that shined on his head, the way his fat fingers would reach out and land on their shoulders. They flinched, you could see—Gerald did, too, but that never stopped him before. You were grateful he never turned his gaze to you that way. You never questioned the impunity you were given, but that didn't stop the strange guilt that arose when the other girls glanced out to the kitchen and met you with subdued distress. It made you feel like you were obligated; say something, do something, and you had always held it back for fear of a lost paycheck. 

There was nothing holding you back anymore. The revelation charged you with a brazen attitude, and each time Gerald would slink his robust frame around you, you would make sure to look right at him, to pack as much malice in your gaze as you could. You decided that you were taking that binder, not just because the Joker demanded it, but because it would hurt Gerald's business in the process. The thought remained, and it was persistent, and for a good portion of your day you were spite embodied, no room left for the twisting to take hold. 

Finding your own silver lining to the deed was more than enough, and as the shift slowed to an end and the last trays of food were placed in the fridges, you looked for an opening with strong determination. Charlotte swept behind you with a hand on your shoulder as you slid a tray of dough from the proofer to the refrigerated cabinet below it. You had been staring across the kitchen, following Gerald as he disappeared into the dishwashing area. 

"You're better than this place, anyhow." She assured you, "Not many here actually went to school for cooking. Hell, not even Gerald, the shrewd asshole he is probably didn't want to pay for it." 

You faced her, itching to make your way to the office. "Thanks, Char." 

"Doesn't mean I won't miss you around here, though." 

"I'm not gone yet. You make it sound like I'm dying or something." You joked. 

"I know, I know." She laughed, and then she smiled. It was warm and motherly, kind and caring.

Charlotte had always been a sort of mother hen to the crew, and you loved her for it. You realized then that you wouldn't be working with her anymore, _soon_. It hadn't hit you, you'd been to preoccupied with your anger toward Gerald, before that the the anxiety of the Joker's demand, and a sadness tried to bloom among the myriad of emotions you'd been harboring. 

"Cassidy wants to go out tonight, she was thinking _Amber's_." Charlotte gave an imploring look. "Come have a drink with us, before you shuffle on to bigger, better things." 

You wanted to. Going out with friends, having a drink at the bar, normal things that normal people did. Your pocket buzzed suddenly, startling you and reminding you of everything that's at stake—that your time's almost up, and the leash was tightening.

You'd never be able to be normal again if you didn't do this, and even then, it would be a distant relative. You forced a steady inhale, distracted with the message, of what it could be, and then you offered Charlotte your best apologetic letdown you could. She looked sad and understanding, and it was simple enough but it felt like so much more than that. Like you were pulling your own leash, now. 

You excused yourself under the guise of an important appointment (not entirely a lie), and quickly made your way to the backrooms. You glanced near the dish pit, heard Gerald's haughty criticism and fleetingly pictured the blonde man from earlier clenching his jaw so tight you could see it, before you slipped into the breakroom and fished the phone from your pocket. You didn't hesitate to open it this time;

**tick tock you're still on the clock**

You shuddered an exhale, tucked the phone away in your pocket, and pivoted to leave the room. 

Gerald's office was unlocked. You slipped in and left it open a crack, keeping your ears keen. The binder wasn't on the desk anymore, you shoved down the dismay that crept up your spine and pulled the office chair out. As you sifted through the drawers, pulling out past event binders and stray papers with an increasing haste, you could hear the muffled sound of Gerald and the dishwasher through the wall. Their voices seemed to grow louder the longer you looked, adding to your already rigid anxiety. You were running out of places to look, and their voices were reaching a crescendo that alluded to either a fight or an end to the 'conversation'—you secretly hoped for the former. 

Then their voices stopped and your heart leapt to your throat. You frantically pulled the last drawer, locked. 

_fuck fuck fuck_

"I know you all aren't gonna leave before finishing..." Gerald was heard through the crack of the door, his voice close, then far. You tensed, waited half a beat, then began searching for the key. It wasn't on the desk, and as more time passed you could hear voices fade out as people left the kitchen. A punch of realization hit you—you spun and looked at the door; hanging on the hook there was Gerald's chef uniform. You leapt for it and dug around in the pockets, a modicum of relief when you pulled out the key to the drawer. 

_tick tock_

You felt like you could _hear_ him say it as you fumbled with the keys and shoved it into the lock. The drawer opened with a distressing amount of noise, but you couldn't care in that moment; the binder was right on top. You stole it, tucked it beneath your arm as you quickly closed the drawer and locked it. You shoved the chair back in place, threw the key back in the pocket, and flipped the light off. 

Footsteps were heard, and you dashed from the office to the breakroom, making to shove the binder into your purse. As soon as you threw the flap over it, it's edges hard and defined protruding beneath the fabric, Gerald passed the breakroom. You turned and looked at him, and he was looking at you, _glaring_ at you. He didn't say anything, and neither did you. When he disappeared back into his cave, you began to worry that he would notice something was wrong, that the binder was gone—you stood frozen a moment, waiting.

Nothing happened. 

_Yet._

"Good, you're still here." You jumped as Charlotte poked her head in, looking concerned. 

"Yeah...Yeah, I was just leaving. I've got that appointment I need to get to." You didn't bother untying your apron as you took your jacket and sheathed your arms in it. You needed to leave, _now_ , the added weight of the binder in your purse swinging like a stone as you threw it on your shoulder. Charlotte stepped into the room, but not before glancing back toward the front of the kitchen. 

"There's a cop out front, looking for you." She said, hushed. 

You felt the color drain from your face. 

"What...He didn't say why?" You stumbled over the words. 

"No, just says he's got some questions for you." Charlotte was looking at you with a hint of suspicion, the way it coincided with her maternal demeanor reminded you too much of a scolding mother. It didn't sit well in your belly, and neither did the onslaught of distress.

_It's Gordan - it has to be. He knows about the grey sweater man, knows what happened._

Charlotte hung about like she expected a confession. 

_If that were the case, you'd already be in cuffs on your way to the precinct._

"Okay." You breathed, "Okay, I'll be there in a minute." 

You quickly slipped from the kitchen, through the front of the store, then outside. It was like the force of one problem blew you right into another, the stress of the stolen binder receded when Gordan turned, standing just outside the door. He looked the same, and somehow completely different all at once; his hair was disheveled, like he'd ran his fingers through it too many times to count. A wearied shadow cast beneath his eyes, his mouth set in stone. It seemed all the pleasantries of your acquaintanceship had since passed, and you felt that twisting sensation come back full throttle.

"We need to talk." 

You swallowed thickly and nodded, "Okay. D—Did something happen?" 

Gordan turned to face you, settling with his eyes narrowed just the slightest. _Why did you say that—ask that?_

"A few things, actually. It's going to be plastered all over the news by tomorrow morning, if not already." He said. Your heart was a full throttle gallop in your chest. "A prominent judge and the commissioner were murdered today. The Joker left his calling card at both the crime scenes. We can't seem to get ahead of him." 

You spun the words around in your head. _More murder, he's killing more people and you can stop him, you can tell them—523 Kings Dale._

"Then there was a third murder, and at first it didn't fit with the others. He wasn't a political figure, wasn't a cop or some faux vigilante like Douglas. We found him bobbing beneath the docks over by West Harlow. He was stabbed, first." Gordan was looking pointedly at you now, like he already knew the center of this web, he just needed your word for it. Your shoulder felt like it was aching, like the stolen binder had morphed to lead. 

"You know why I'm asking you—you had a run in with him already, same area, same outcome. Did something else happen, did he come back?" There was a certain glimmer in his eyes; it was there when you first talked to him at the precinct, an empathetic softness that somehow made him more credulous. Gordan had the look of a man you could confide in, and the means to help—but he didn't before, he gave you a card and sent you on your way.

Then the Joker waltzed right through your front door. Maybe none of this would have happened if Gotham PD had taken the initiative, had explored what you thought was a pretty damn credible lead. The card was unmistakable, and after your first encounter with the Joker, so was he. What he said to you in your living room resurfaced with a dreadful clarity: _It's your precious Lieutenant Gordan, the whole of Gotham's pathetic excuse for order. It's vigilantes that call themselves hero's—And what are we, a bunch of pawns and disregarded, to do but play their little game?_

"I.." It was scarcely a whisper, and what was a second of hesitation in real time was like trudging through black tar in your head; You could tell him, he could help you _—_ but he didn't before, he left you as an afterthought and when it suited him he came back. You were spiteful, yes, but more so you wondered what Gordan could _even do._ The Joker was ten steps ahead in every league, including your own life. The prickling sensation of being watched never left you, followed you like a black cloud as the days passed. 

He had known everything without ever being there, he could be watching from the shadows now. He could have known Gordan would come to you, ask about the murder and your ties with the Joker—the notion that this whole interaction was being pulled by purple strings from the sidelines struck you then. The selfishness of bitterness was the kickoff, but It was the fear of _him_ , the definitive hold he had over you with both the knife and the intangible grasp of fear that took the reins. 

"I haven't seen him...since that night." You forced the words out; it felt like pushing a slab of stone over your tomb, like severing whatever tether you had to salvation and now you're stuck in the well of your own problems—with _him_. 

Gordan's expectant face fell, his frown distinguished with lines of exhaustion. He looked disappointed. 

"I need you to know; if you've been in contact, if you _know_ where he is, you need to come forward. He's _dangerous_ —he may have been there to rescue you that night, but he's the most dangerous man in this city, right now." Gordan pushed. 

"At least _someone_ was there to help me." It slipped through, a string of thought that felt detached from your own person. 

Gordan caught the enmity of it, the jab at the police force, at their lack of initiative when you needed them most; he knew, and he had the kindness to look sorry for it. 

"Listen to me," Gordan stepped in closer, "we should have looked into your case _the day_ you came in, I'll admit that. The Joker has half the police force scrambling, the other half in his pocket, and I know, I _know_ that it was wrong on our end to not help you more. But if you don't come forward, whatever information you have on this guy, more people _are_ going to get hurt." 

Twisting in your chest, being pulled in all directions. You looked at Gordan, squared your gaze with his; his cerulean eyes were desperate now, he was stretched thin and you could help him, you could help everyone else in this city because you knew, without it being said, the Joker was just getting started. 

There was a crash of metal then, so loud it could be heard from outside—both you and Gordan whipped your attention to the store, where Charlotte came rushing through the swinging doors with urgency. You stepped back, one hand slapped instinctively over your satchel purse. Gordan approached, meeting Charlotte halfway at the door. 

"What's wrong?" 

Charlotte gestured wildly to the back of the store, "They're fighting in there, don't know over what but the dishwasher—Liam—he's got one of the kitchen knives and Gerald's bleeding!" 

Gordan snapped his attention to you, "Stay here." then he rushed past Charlotte and disappeared into the back of the store. She had brought out her phone, called the police with twitching hands and stared at you with wide eyed shock. 

"He just _snapped_ , outta nowhere! Started throwing things around then he went for Gerald with the knife—"

"He didn't say anything?" You asked, she shook her head vehemently. The line connected, and she jerked away as she began explaining the situation over the phone. You stared past her, toward the doors to the kitchen. A horrible suspicion had you brush past Charlotte, who reached out and grabbed your shoulder with a shake of her head. 

"There's blood—lots of it." 

It was enough to make you hesitate, to shiver and remember all the blood you'd seen as of late. Still, you brushed off her hand and rushed inside; you had to see him, to see Liam's face, to know—

You pushed open the doors and saw Gerald leaned back against one of the standing freezers; he was bleeding from beneath his fingers, wrapped around the thickness of his upper arm. Blood rolled down in rivulets, dripping off his fingers to join the puddle at his feet. The kitchen had been torn apart, a wide array of utensils and cooking ware scattered around the tile floor. In the center of the mess was Gordan, working the cuffs onto Liam's bloodied wrists. The blonde's face was pressed against the top of a steel counter, and he shifted just enough to look at you across the way.

He grinned, wild and unhinged and you knew in that moment who he was. 

The phone pinged in your pocket, all eyes turned to you as you staggered back, away from Liam's malignant smile, from Gordan's watchful eyes, from Gerald's hateful glare. You could hear the sound of sirens outside, the distant wailing that rose in tandem with the thrum of your heart. When your back hit the swinging doors, you pivoted in place and shoved them open, dashing through the front of the shop, past Charlotte's confused calling, and further. 

The sirens felt like they followed you as you ran. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Things are starting to pick up and get a little messy, and I'm so excited for future chapters. Feedback and concrit is welcome, kudos are so massively appreciated! 
> 
> Sidenote; the time discrepancy of Leob and Surrillo's deaths are intentional, in canon they are killed the same day/around the same time as the fundraiser, but I changed it because I wanted the order of events stretched out further for ~reasons~
> 
> Posted 10/18/2020


	7. Splintered

_“The great roots of night grow suddenly from your soul, and the things that hide in you come out again”._

— Pablo Neruda

* * *

You got five blocks down, the binder slapping against your thigh with every breathless stride you took, delivering a dull thrum of an ache that seemed to recede the same way the feeling in your legs did. The sweat on your forehead chilled in the air, running down your temples in frigid trails, and when you finally came to a stop it was with an unsteady tremor in your bones, like you'd collapse with a brush of wind. With a shuddering exhale, you walked in a small circle, forced yourself to keep moving before resolving to lean against the stonework of a decrepit building. The sirens were still heard, like a whisper through the soundscape of Gotham.

You thought Gordan was suspicious of you _before._

You swore under your breath, shoving your hair from your face. Tendrils stuck to your forehead still as you reached down and opened your bag, like you needed to reinforce your reasoning for running in the first place. You got the binder, but not whatever relief you were expecting. 

_Why did you run? Stupid— **stupid** , what were you thinking?_

You're going to go home and see a police car, _hell, why not make it two_ , outside your apartment. Gordan won't play so nice the second time around, not after what you just did. You wondered if Gerald had noticed the binder was missing, and Liam, _if that's even his real name,_ had intervened before Gerald could follow you outside—make a scene about it in front of Gordan. Or maybe the binder was still accounted for in Gerald's mind, and Liam was there to make sure you didn't do anything regretful—like crumble under Gordan's unwavering scrutiny.

Whatever Liam's prerogative was, the lieutenant already had his suspicions of your involvement. Tacking on a stolen binder for Wayne's fundraiser might not fit in the picture now, but you knew it would soon. You knew it was only a matter of time before it catches up; before the binder is found missing, before the fundraiser, before Gordan pieces it together. 

"Fuck." You breathed, _you're in it now._

The street lamp in front of you flickered on, nighttime quickly approaching, and with that darkness crept out Gotham's undesirable's. You wanted nothing more than to go home, lock the door, and forget any of this ever happened. It was a bittersweet thought, because you could _almost_ convince yourself it would be that easy; that Gordan wouldn't be there, doubling down on his interrogation and ready to cuff you as an accomplice, or at the very least a suspect. That the Joker wouldn't find you not long after, his own wicked brand of repercussions something you didn't even want to _consider_. That you could go about your life like none of it ever happened— _go back to being no one._

You closed your bag, dropped your head back and stared upward for a moment. Your chest ached, lungs burned like you'd inhaled a line of glass shards, and your stomach felt like it was being twisted from the inside. But you also felt _thrilled_ , riled up like someone had poured liquid adrenaline right down your throat, and all those times you complained about your boring, downtrodden life seemed like the tantrums of a petulant child compared to now. 

That saying, you know the one; _be careful what you wish for_. Ringing in with it's contemptuous two-cents.

You _wanted_ excitement, craved something more from life, something bigger than working your ass off for an ungrateful boss and going through the same monotonous routine every day. It was fucking _Groundhog Day_ without the charm, and maybe this was your loophole—this was the way out. You hated it. Hated that you could find some adverse silver lining in this whole shitstorm of a mess. One upside felt like nothing when you considered everything. Recounting the events of the last two days, it felt like so much longer; the days stretched on, rolled out under the wheel of terror and excitement and it felt like weeks. 

And you hadn't even started yet, really. 

You still needed to go to _him._ You felt a pang of something undiscernible in your gut. All those staggering emotions plus a bonus scintilla of something alike to eagerness. You weren't sure for what— _to get this over with?_ That didn't feel right. You knew this wouldn't end here, you knew the binder was just the beginning of whatever scheme he had brewing, and you'd be close enough to feel the heat of it, _at least._

You shoved it down, dressed yourself up with whatever pseudo determination you had, and fished out the Nokia from your pocket. 

**Better hurry Red, it's getting dark.**

You closed the phone silently. A shiver took you, then you began gnawing on your lower lip as you considered every other alternative. None of them seemed right; sure, going to Gordan and spilling your admission glimmered with hope, but it was a dull glimmer and you, with your aggrieved spite, didn't _want_ to go to Gordan. You told yourself that was the only reason. That it wasn't that strange, alluring sensation that itched at the back of your mind when you thought of seeing _him_ again. 

You didn't need to dig that up, it was already close to the surface—close enough that you could make out it's picture; when he was in your living room, close and terrifying and you were entranced with him. It was the same feeling, the same magnetism that propelled you with the force of fear and intrigue. He was dangerous, and you felt thrilled; like stepping into the monsters cage, knowing full well he could snap and bite and _tear_ you up, and you rode that intoxicating perchance that he _could,_ and silently reveled in the fact that he _hadn't_.

Maybe you felt special; the fucked up, deleterious kind of special—but exceptional in someone's eyes, even if that someone was the Joker.

 _That_ was something you didn't want to poke around in. You'd begin and fall through, and you couldn't afford to let that happen, not now. It was hard not to think about everything all at once, not to drown in it or let it get under your skin to prickle with uncertainty, but you did just that. You thought of nothing, nothing but the Joker's monstrous grin as you made your way to the nearest bus stop. 

* * *

The fear came back first; your destination was in the Narrows, nestled in a thick patch of abandoned industrial buildings and close enough to the harbor that you could hear Gotham River splitting it from the mainland. You'd never ventured into this part of the city before. The apprehensive look the bus driver shot your way as you stepped off was enough to cue you in on the type of area it was, and your trek further into the darkness was definitive—it was a _bad_ place to be, and you felt the loss of your switchblade in full force as you walked onward.

Bitter winds, touched with the frigid chill of the river, swept through the buildings and found it's way through your jacket. You shivered and tried not to think about what you were doing, the scenery through the darkened streets plenty enough to keep you distracted; you spotted more than one car sat atop cinderblocks for wheels, a couple of vagrants lingering in one of the alleyways you'd passed—spurring you to instinctively pick up the pace—and a myriad of city-wildlife from dogs, to cats, to the occasional raccoon. It didn't take long to reach the location, and as you approached the building, caution a gradually rising flood, you steeled yourself and thought; _you've come this far._

It was a derelict four story, innocuous enough when considering it's surroundings, but you knew better. Behind the rust speckled blue doors of this place was anything but innocence, and when you walk in there, that'll include you. 

You knocked, it echoed like a steel drum. The door opened startlingly quick, and you weren't sure why, but you were expecting _him_ to be there; your heart had hammered itself into a crescendo and the finale didn't do justice. Instead of the Joker's painted grin you were met with complete darkness, and somehow that was worse. You stood, a little perplexed at first, which grew to uneasy, which spurred you to take a very hesitant step forward and act out horror trope number one; 

"Hello?" 

Nothing. _Of course._

It was hard to focus, hard to ignore the fear that crept up your spine, or the anticipation that curled in your gut as your feet carried you past the threshold. A beat passed, cut into panic when the door suddenly slammed shut behind you, engulfing you in complete darkness and the hands within it. A solid arm around your middle, a leather clad palm over your mouth, you gave a muffled shout and flailed on instinct. 

"Oh _Red_ —don't tell me you're _scared_ of the _dark_."

Explaining the rush of relief you felt, knowing it was _him_ and not some random thug, would have been impossible. After all, your heart was still pounding in your ears as you inhaled the acrid and familiar scent of him, fear still flowed through your veins but it wasn't quite as sharp. A part of you wanted to be worried about that. 

"Little Red, _skipping_ her way into the big bad's lair. Such a _novel_ concep-t. _"_ He had leaned down, you could feel the tails of his greasy hair tickle your cheek.

His voice seemed a strange type of detached, harrowed and carrying through the expanse of void before you. You had found his forearm during your brief struggle, fingers curled into the thick cotton of his trench and something about it seemed terribly wrong—he was your anchor in this darkness, the only tangible thing in a sea of black. 

"Drop any _breadcrumbs_ along the way?" He asked, and you knew to answer because he peeled his gloved fingers from your mouth with slow intent, a warning.

You found your voice with a slight waver, "If you're asking if I was followed...I don't think so." 

He sucked against his teeth, a sharp, wet noise that rang of dissatisfaction. " _Think_ and _know_ are two separate things, doll. I don't _think_ you have what I need—I _know_ you do. I don't wanna _think_ you didn't have the police follow you, I want to _know._ Y'know?" His intonation was a swinging metronome between saccharine sweet and firm assertion. 

"I didn't tell the police—I didn't tell anyone." 

_"Really?"_ He pushed, sardonically. 

"Really." 

Stretched seconds passed, the stillness disrupted only with your heart and the sound of breathing. Suddenly, his free hand came up to pat your head and you flinched. The most wicked giggle you'd ever heard echoed in the darkness when he abruptly pulled away.

" _Well_ , in _that_ case—" The panic resurfaced in the split second of his absence to the time it took for the lights to turn on, basking the room with a dull yellow that still managed to blind you for a moment. When you registered that you weren't the only ones in the room, you felt irrationally embarrassed; they were scattered all around, a decent sized throng of masked people all turned your direction, all eyes felt but not seen in the black pits of their disguises. If they weren't moving, returning to whatever idle task they were up to before your arrival, you might have thought they were mannequins. The Joker's broad frame rounded you, shadowed you as his head eclipsed the ceiling light and illuminated the green in his hair. "—welcome to the _party_ , Red." 

You genuinely didn't know what to say in that moment, thrown off kilter after your frightful welcoming and suddenly face to face with the man that's haunted your head these recent days, words were at a loss. The Joker swept over your lack of response surprisingly gracefully, with a patience that you hadn't expected. Then again, you weren't really sure _what_ to expect when it came to him. 

Yes, he was still terrifying, and just being in his presence set your teeth on edge, but the dimmed lighting helped you see the edges of his greasepaint; under his jaw and beyond the line of his grease-slicked hair. His throat, that little plane between his jaw and the collar of his ensemble was a tawny brown. You thought of the alleyway, when he saved you and you didn't know who _he_ was yet—just a strange man, in your eyes.

The quick, anticipatory way he licked at his split lower lip stole your attention.

"What'cha got for me?"

"R-Right—" You stuttered to business, trying to tune out the multiple masked faces that still lingered on you as you took hold of your purse and shimmied the binder free. "Here."

When you looked up to hand it to him you tried not to let the fear resurface. It was easier this time around—he hadn't hurt you, but you kept it in your head that he _could_. The Joker squinted marginally, enough to make the whites of his eyes indecipherable, before snatching the binder from your hands. 

"It's all the information my boss has on the fundraiser." You said, feeling nervous as he opened it up and began flipping through the laminated pages. He stopped at the menu templates, you half expected him to throw the binder over his shoulder and declare it useless when he hummed. 

"I think the, ah, _real crime_ here is _fig tapenade."_ He mused aloud.

It was so unexpected, and you were damn near jittery with your myriad of bottled emotions that you almost laughed. The tension that hung in the air was heavy enough to ground you, the anticipation that preceded this moment building up ever since the Joker delcared you an unwilling asset—jokes and excitement and danger be damned, you still needed to know what happens _now_. 

"Is that good? Can we be done?" You spoke up, feeling the eyes of the masked thugs as they turned their attention back to you.

A quick glance provided a look at the gun one of them was cleaning, another sat fully back in a metal chair, arms crossed over their chest as they stared at you. You absently shuffled closer to the Joker, who continued flipping through the pages, ostensibly ignoring you as he happened across a copy of the kitchen map of the penthouse. You swallowed thickly and resisted the urge to fidget in place.

They continued to stare, like they were waiting for something to happen. 

"You'll have a _word_ with good ol' Gerald, won't you? I've got a bit of a, uh, _sweet-tooth—_ and _tapenade?"_ He raised a brow, giving a disappointed look that did everything to confuse you.

You shook your head, "What? _I'm not—_ I don't work there anymore. I _can't_ go back, not after today." 

Joker closed the binder then, heavy handed like a gavel on wood. "I didn't _tell_ you to quit— _especially_ without a two weeks notice." He tutted at you, you gaped. "How will Gerald do this job without his _model employee,_ and how will _I_ get through security with an _invitation?"_

"I couldn't keep working there if I wanted to. They'll know it was me that took the binder, and Gordan—"

"Gordan's only got _speculation_ and some very flimsy ties. This," He held up the binder in emphasis, "this was a _competitor_ , sending in cheap labor for some blue-collar warfare. Shame on them, they didn't go about it the _right_ way. Their _employee_ was two weeks fresh from Arkham. Those business moguls do _love_ cutting corners, don't they?

"Then why didn't you have _him_ take it? Why do you even need me?" You pushed. 

"There's no _fun_ in that. You and me," He motioned between you two, "we're _friends_ , and we wouldn't want you to _miss out_ on the fun, would we? Liam was only there to keep an _eye_ on you, doll. Keep you _safe_." He was using that tone again; the one that felt sickly sweet. 

"Keep me _safe?"_ You breathed, disbelieving.

He hummed an affirmation, remaining frustratingly nonchalant, "That's right, Red. _Who knows_ who that man you killed was. I personally thought he looked a bit _familiar_ —I got a good look at his face when I _dragged_ his body outta the alleyway for you. Might've worked with the _Italian mob."_

He spoke like he was passing idle gossip, you tried to compartmentalize what it all meant; _if he really was part of the mob, and you killed him...oh God._ Your stomach lurched, a renewed fear manifesting, forcing it's way in with the rest. 

"I didn't know who he was." You looked up at him, absently searching for some type of assurance in your bewildered stupor. "They have to know that _he_ attacked _me."_

The Joker nodded his head, casting a solemn expression, " _We_ know that, but _they_ don't." He held out the binder, a clown-faced goon brushed past you to sweep it up. You startled, watching him and the binder disappear through a set of doors far side of the room. You stared after him, distracted and disorientated.

The Joker got what he wanted, but you were deeper now than you ever were. You wanted to think he was lying—that the only reason Liam was there was to make sure you didn't royally fuck something up. But if he wasn't, if he really _was_ trying to protect you—

The Joker's fingers on your chin forced your attention back to him. You went rigid at the contact, and he quirked his head with a small smile. 

"I couldn't let you _wander_ Gotham alone with _that_ kind of heat, doll."

_—why?_

He was bent slightly at the waist, his luridly painted face inching closer and whatever words you were going to say were suddenly trapped in your throat. His eyes were liquid jet, piercing right through you, advancing and you don't know why but you looked at his mouth, openly stared at the gnarled flesh of his cheeks, the wishbone scar on his lower lip. Danger flashed like a strobe-neon as bright as the crimson on his face, that gut-wrenching twist of anxiety and fear froze you, but your heart thrummed with undeniable excitement—a heat rose within you, and for a fleeting moment you wondered what his mouth would feel like on your own. 

His grin split his face slowly, pulled at the scars to reveal his grisly yellowed teeth in a look that was hauntingly knowing. 

" _After all_ , what're friends for?" 

_You wanted to trust him;_ the thought came to you from deep down, dredged up with the close proximity of him, the all encompassing haze you seem to find yourself in whenever he was close. 

Maybe you didn't _want_ to know his real reasoning, maybe you'd prefer to remain in the dark. It would make everything so much easier, abandoning whatever moral preservation you had and just _doing_. You knew that staying in the dark meant relying on him, though. It meant gripping onto his proverbial sleeve when things got scary. Entrusting him with that type of power _screamed_ danger, but you didn't know what else to do. _Gordan's still an option_ , you right-mindedly told yourself. It would be self-immolation, you would be held accountable for your actions if the Joker kept to his word, and you had no doubt he would, but would Gordan keep you safe from the mob after locking you up?

Revelation dawned on you; the only person who's been on your side was the same person who tangled you up—the Joker.

"You're puttin' it together, aren't you? I _like_ that about you: you've got a _pretty_ _face_ that _tells all."_

You shivered, a strange sensation trickled down your spine at the tone of his voice. He was so close, you could feel his breath billow onto your face. 

"You _need_ me, Red. And _I_ need you. You know _Gordan_ won't spare you any wellness checks when he learns you _killed_ someone. I can keep you _safe_ , you _just_ gotta play by _my_ rules." He let go of your chin, the movement flowed into him cradling your cheek in his palm. Heat radiated through the leather and you couldn't shake the thought of how pleasant it was; a gentle touch in wake of life-shattering news was what you needed, _and he knew it._

"What does this mean, then?" You asked, finally finding your voice. "You take care of everything and I _just trust you?"_

" _Mmhm_." He hummed, "You can _mosey_ on home, tuck yourself in for some _much_ needed rest before work, and _I'll_ make sure you're not sporting a _red dot_ on your forehead. _Sounds good,_ don't it?"

"But what about—"

"After? Well, _after's_ up in the air, doll. After is for _you_ to decide." 

You didn't know what he meant by that. You supposed you would find out. 

"Okay." You exhaled shakily, yet resolute all at once. "I'll help you."

Saying no didn't even cross your mind—there was no room for it.

His smile renewed, patting his hand against your cheek he drew back, standing to full height and snapping you from the reverie you'd found yourself in. You felt a longing absence, confusing you because you wanted to be repulsed by him, and a part of you _was_ , but the embrace was undeniably comforting.

"I'm so thrilled we could come to an _understanding_ , doll." 

"I—"

"Ah," He cut you off, holding up a finger. "Let's not ruin the _moment_. As much as I'd _love_ to pass around proclamations of _gratitude_ , I'd rather let _actions_ speak for themselves. Now, why don't you head on home, doll. I've got some _plans_ to make, and _you've_ got a long day ahead of you tomorrow." Wickedness glimmered in his eyes. "I'm sure _Gerald_ won't be too pleasant to work around, what with being _attacked_ and all." 

And _there_ was that malicious jeer he'd been withholding, and whatever gratitude you did have for him was shuffled along like it hadn't happened at all. A part of you was grateful for it; the reinforced resent helped clear your muddled head, get you back on track and cognizant. 

"What are you planning?" You took a step back, actively distancing yourself.

"Questions like _that_ aren't in the rulebook, sweetheart. Besides, wouldn't want to _spoil_ the surprise." He replied, then turned to look pointedly at one of the goons that still remained in the room. The man nodded, wordlessly standing and approaching. You didn't notice them file out during your interaction. You were so distracted you wouldn't have noticed if the building was burning around you, or the fire that would have licked at your skin, for that matter.

"Jonny-boy here'll take you home. Girl like you, walking around Gotham so _late_ at night? _Well_ , we both know how _that_ turns out." 

He was looking at you again, eyebrows raised as though he expected something. Realization clicked; you forced the words out. 

"Thank you." 

His smirk was self-satisfied as he waved you off with a flick of the wrist, sauntering his way toward the doors you'd watched the binder disappear through. Jonny made to reach for you, possibly tug you along, but stopped before his fingers touched your shoulder. Curiously, you glanced at him, made out the glassy reflection of light in his eyes behind the mask, and then you stole another look at the Joker. 

"I'll keep in touch, Red." 

* * *

Trusting the Joker was unexpected. None of what happened was expected, but putting your own life in his hands, _willingly_ , was _not_ part of the plan.

You couldn't stop thinking about how _fucked_ everything had gotten, how quickly it snowballed into something so much more than you bargained for. As you stared out the heavily tinted window of the backseat, you realized that going home was now more terrifying than going to the Joker's warehouse. It was a confusing thought; that you'd rather be with _him_ than on your own, subject to potential assassination and definitely another visit from Gordan—where you'd have to lie your way through once again.

You hadn't even acknowledged the way he made you feel. For a brief moment, he appeared as someone you could trust, someone who would protect you, who understood you; someone who saw you. But that didn't feel poignant enough. The Joker, for all those brief encounters, stared right into the very core of you, and you couldn't draw on any other moment that made you feel quite as significant. You remembered staring at his mouth, feeling his breath on your face and heat bloomed in your cheeks because you thought for a moment he was going to _kiss_ you. It was made all the more distressing when you realized you would have let him. Dissecting the root of _that_ was more than you could handle at the moment, but still the thoughts lingered about, posed to resurface when you saw him again.

Because you _would_ see him again.

The fear of _him_ wasn't entirely prevalent anymore, it was the fear of _yourself_. That you would do something regrettable, or you'd follow his laid out plans with that mesmerized pliancy that seemed to befall you every time you were with him. You dreaded seeing him again, yet at the same time, it was all you could think about. 

Your skin tingled where he'd grabbed you. Where he held your face, forced you to look at him—you shook your head vehemently. Jonny glanced at you, mask-less now with his weathered face and snowy blond hair, eying you from the rearview mirror.

You probably looked insane. 

You didn't tell Jonny where you lived. He stopped a block over from your apartment complex. He said nothing, the sound of the doors unlocking your cue, and you quickly stepped out of the car and into the brisk air. When he drove off, leaving you under the dull glow of a streetlamp, you felt tremendously vulnerable. The feeling clung to you as you made your way home, peering out into the darkness, looking for figures, fingers clutching around nothing where your switchblade would have been. 

There were no cops. You took your victories where you could and quickly slipped into your apartment, locking up habitually. The hour was late, and although you certainly could have collapsed with exhaustion, sleep was nowhere near the forefront of your mind. In fact, the forefront was hardly a thing anymore. Everything was muddled and confused and _loud_ , and sleep wouldn't have been a strong enough muzzle for any of it. 

You made your way into the kitchen, rummaging around through the cabinet above your stove to procure an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. You couldn't remember why you had it, you weren't really a drinker. A gift or something, forgotten in the depths of your kitchen but you cradled it in your hands like it was a totem of sanity. 

A knock at your door almost had the bottle slip from your fingers, jolting you and kickstarting your heart into rapid gear. 

_Would Italian mobsters knock on your door before shooting you?_ You thought the notion rather plausible, but more so was that it was Gordan. Vigilant and ready to grill you until you spilled everything out in the open. Neither were favorable, and you had half a mind to slink your way into your bedroom and wait it out until the knocking resumed, this time accompanied with a muffled voice. 

"Hey, it's Jeremy." 

You exhaled with relief, setting the bottle on the counter as you walked out of the small kitchen. 

Jeremy—he was the smallest piece of normalcy you had right now, and his familiar disheveled appearance was certainly a sight for sore eyes. He was doing that _too cold to stand still_ dance, offering a kindly smile as his dark eyes flicked down your frame. 

"Hey, looks like I caught you before you left." He commented, spurring you to look down at yourself. 

"Oh, no I just got home, actually." 

"Yeah, that makes more sense." He agreed teasingly, a shiver racking his lengthy frame. 

"Do you wanna come inside?" You offered, stepping back with a motion of your hand. Jeremy nodded enthusiastically, quickly crossing the threshold and you closed the door behind him. He stood center of your living room, residual tremors of the cold shaking him as he looked about your apartment. You shook the image of the Joker, standing there not too long ago, from your head and tugged off your purse. 

Jeremy had been exceptionally friendly as of late, spurred on by recent events undoubtedly, and this moment was no different. You felt a bit guilty about it, if you were being honest; Jeremy was already more tangled up in your mess than you wanted, and you had a feeling he would have kept to himself if you hadn't asked him to be your look out. Although, something about him simply rang altruistic; he was too kind _not_ to help, and you were too selfish to turn him away. 

The whiskey on your counter beckoned, and you went to it without hesitance. 

"Thirsty?" You offered, plucking the bottle by the neck and holding it up. Jeremy politely declined, ambling his way into the kitchen while casually looking about. You digressed, fetching a glass and thinking about everything and nothing all at once. 

"Never actually been in your apartment. It's... _cozy_." He decided, offering up a small smile when you glanced at him. You mirrored him as best you could, twisting the cap off and resisting the urge to drink straight from the bottle. That probably wouldn't look to great for you; the girl with the strange trench-coat visitor and the sudden skeptical behavior was _also_ an alcoholic, and you wanted to laugh bitterly at the thought as your poured a generous amount of whiskey.

"Thanks. It's home." You stated dryly, holding up your glass with mock toast and he chuckled and bowed his head as though saying, _cheers to that_. When you brought the rim to your lips, his smile faltered, and you gulped down more amber-fire than you were ready for. It seared down your throat, settling like a hot stone in your gut. 

"So...cops came by today." He tried to smooth his way into it, he _really_ did. "Some detective guy, real _straight to business type_." You knew why Jeremy was here, but the affirmation that Gordan was _already_ looking for a follow-up didn't lose it's worrisome charm. 

"Mustache, glasses?" You stole another drink, big as the first with less of a bite. It didn't take long for a fog to ebb its way in, dulling your frayed nerves pleasantly. Jeremy looked a touch concerned, but he nodded nonetheless. 

"Yeah. Gave me a card—" He made to reach into his hoodie pocket, but you stalled him with a hand and a small shake of your head. 

"It's alright, I've got one already." Another drink, the fog thickened. 

"Right..." He followed you as you brushed past him, rolling to a stop in the middle of your living room. You stared at the whiskey in the glass, still felt the residual burn of it in your nostrils and throat. You took another drink, which evolved into a long, searing guzzle until the glass was polished. You wanted more; whispers of doubt and fear and _him_ still carried through your head, emerging through the fog like hands in the dark. 

You felt Jeremy's presence behind you. You thought of the Joker, of how often he did just that; stood behind you, wrapped you up in his iron grip be it from the comfort of your own home or from the void-like depth of a decrepit warehouse. But Jeremy's presence didn't prickle the hairs on the back of your neck, didn't nudge your heart into a rhythm that was intoxicatingly uncomfortable. Quite the contrary, Jeremy was comfort personified. You didn't even flinch when he placed his hand on your shoulder. 

"You wanna...talk about it?" Jeremy sounded completely out of his element, and you couldn't help but think it was one more thing he didn't ask for.

Still, you were selfish, and your head was swimming—you swallowed thickly and turned around. 

"Why do you care so much?" You asked softly.

He raised his brows, color tinging his cheeks. He was so different than _him,_ everything about him was a stark contrast. Still, as the liquor steeped you found comparisons where you could; he was tall, like him. His eyes were also dark, and you felt seen by both but there was a monumental difference; he looked at you with warmth and sympathy whereas the Joker's gaze was hard and piercing.

"I mean...you're a good person, and I'm your neighbor, so—that came out wrong. What I meant is—" He tripped and stumbled over his own tongue. There was that wholesomeness of his, the one that made you think of simpler times, of normalcy. You didn't think you could explain to Jeremy what he was to you in that moment, be it your own lack of understanding, or the heavy lull of alcohol that took you. You told yourself, half-aware, that you _would_ blame the alcohol for what happened next; 

You pushed yourself up onto your toes and kissed him. He stopped rambling immediately, standing inert as you leaned into him unsteadily. 

You weren't sure what you were expecting. Maybe sparks, something that would tell you that this was the right thing to do. It wasn't, you knew because there were no sparks, no life changing revelations—there was coarse scruff against your cheeks and the imaginary taste of greasepaint, and your stomach sank as Jeremy's hands raised, settling on your shoulders gently. You pulled back, expecting anything other than the gentle concern on his face. 

You immediately felt horrible. 

"Thank you...for caring." You took a step back, distancing yourself. 

He looked like he wanted to say so much more than he did, "You're not alone, y'know." 

"I know." You whispered, trying hard to ignore the sincerity in his voice.

You liked Jeremy. You liked him in the way you liked the whiskey in your stomach. He was warm, and comforting, and you would use him as a means to forget. But no matter how selfish you were, you couldn't do it. He didn't deserve to be used like that, strung along unwitting by your self-serving leash. 

"I need to wake up early tomorrow." You stated, hating how distant you sounded, how clear it was that you were trying to brush it all aside.

And Jeremy, being who he was, understood. 

He reminded you that he's next-door if you need him, told you that he was there for you, suggested that he cared for you not _just_ because you were his neighbor. You wanted to push him out the door, slam it in his face because maybe then he wouldn't knock again, offer his kindness and make you think for a moment that you could be anything other than you were. Even that was selfish of you, and when Jeremy did leave your apartment, you found yourself pouring another glass of whiskey. 

The time was well past midnight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're closing in on the big night, our ill-fated reader has been through the wringer, tied up in a big ol' shitstorm that just gets worse thanks to the Joker and a few of her own questionable actions...let's see how it plays out. ;)
> 
> Thank you to all the kind souls that have left kudos and amazing comments on this fic! I appreciate all of you so much, and genuinely look forward to hearing your thoughts on the story thus far. I apologize for any typos and the like, I don't have much time to write and even less time to edit, but I hope you enjoyed this chapter! ^^ 
> 
> Concrit is welcome, feedback/kudos are immensely appreciated! <33
> 
> Posted 11/02/2020


	8. Double-down

_"Oh, what a tangled web we weave...when first we practice to deceive."_

_—_ Walter Scott

* * *

Another encounter with Jim Gordan was inevitable, you knew full well that he wasn't done with you yet _,_ but as you approached your apartment from half a block away, tired and wrung dry after dealing with an especially irate Gerald (getting stabbed certainly put an edge to his mood), you wondered if the seasoned cop on your doorstep planned these moments out; _wait until after she's had twelve hours working with her horrible boss, let him loosen her up—good cop, bad boss routine._

You weren't sure how long Gordan had been there, waiting patiently with his hands in his pockets. Certainly not long, how could he spare the time for it? There was the reality of the situation. With the Joker running around in the shadows, a burning line of mayhem left in his wake, Gordan had deemed the best use of his increasingly precious time was to wait outside your apartment. To wait for a girl who ostensibly had a one-off encounter with Gotham's most wanted; a catering chef, a _nobody_. 

Although after your last encounter with the officer, it seemed Jim Gordan thought you were definitely _somebody_. Your stomach had since twisted into a knotted mess as you approached the bottom step, peering up at Gordan with faux indifference. 

"Lieutenant Gordan." You greeted, plainly. 

"Afternoon. I was hoping we could continue where we left off...didn't really catch an opportunity for those questions."

He smiled then, and everything about it seemed wrong _—_ rehearsed. You supposed being in that line of work offered plenty of time to perfect those mannerisms; reactions of empathy or authenticity kept in the utility belt, right beside the Glock and the radio. It seemed to be Jim Gordan's go-to. But it wasn't just that. This wasn't the comradery two people in your _particular_ situation would dance around. 

"Right. Of course _—_ we can go inside, if you'd like?" You offered, chest feeling hollow and throat tight. 

You didn't quite have the charisma for small-talk, even if your head was actually on straight, forget about trying it now. Instead, you trekked up the stairs and fished around in your purse, digging out the keys and attempting to ignore Gordan's presence in your peripheral. It worked for all of four seconds, then the door clicked open and the weight of dreadful anticipation nearly grounded you.

Gordan shuffled behind you, and you stepped inside. 

You were shaking as you slipped your purse off, followed with your jacket. It felt like each movement you made was hyper-analyzed, and the feeling solidified when you dropped your hands from the coat rack, now left to your own devices. The dim lighting in the kitchen refracted through the near empty whiskey bottle on the counter, glowing an amber gold. Gordan gave a small cough as he proceeded into the living room. 

"Apologies for the time, I know talking with me is the last thing on your mind, right now." Gordan said, breaking the tense silence in a way that seemingly shattered it completely; not for the best, now you'd have to tread carefully. 

"It's fine." You said, without looking at him you stepped into the kitchen, flicking the light on as you went. "I can only imagine how overwhelmed the police force is." Opening the cabinet, you plucked the last clean glass off the shelf and tried to steady the unwarranted quiver in your wrist. "Drink?" 

"No...No. Like you said, we're swamped with recent events. A drink sounds fantastic, but might cloud my judgement." Gordan replied from behind you. You could hear his footsteps as he wandered around the living room. "From what I gathered, you're pretty booked yourself." 

You were mid-pour when he said it, your hand slipping just barely to pour a moderate amount of whiskey right onto the counter. 

"Dammit." You breathed, setting the bottle down. 

"Catering for the Wayne Foundation seems a pretty lucrative deal." Gordan stepped to the side of you, no doubt taking note of everything you did. "Something I'm sure plenty of business moguls like your boss, Gerald, are hunting around for. Could set someone up in the right circle, make connections."

You ran your tongue along the back of your teeth, taking a brief moment to configure, before standing straight and taking the glass in hand. The spilt whiskey shined under the kitchen light like a misshapen piece of glass. With what little confidence you had left, you turned and rested your back against the counter. 

"Gerald wasn't thinking straight when he accepted the job." You began, looking down into your glass. "The Wayne Foundation...that's the big leagues of catering. I think the price-tag attached to the name was _— is_ the only thing that mattered. I mean, he didn't even give us the time to prepare for something that big, and that's implying we have what it takes to host such a big event in the first place." You finished with a small sigh, then brought the glass to your lips. The burn was welcome. 

"Ambition'll often cloud judgement." Gordan replied, "seems your boss had some high expectations for his crew. Something like that might piss a few people off." 

"People like Liam, you mean?" You looked up at him then, swallowing thickly. 

"Well, yes, and potentially no. I thought that might've been Liam's prerogative, but I got a call soon after leaving your work." 

The jolt in your chest physically hurt, spurring you to anxiously take another sip of whiskey. 

"About what?" That felt too stoic; monotone.

Gordan seemed unfazed, "Your boss has either misplaced all the information on the Wayne's Fundraiser, or, he's convinced Liam stole the information for a competitor."

You gave a small snort of disbelief, "Is that really something someone would do?" That sounded better, more believable. You were looking at Gordan then, a slight pinch of the brow and an incredulous quirk of the lips felt right. 

"As much as I'd like to chalk this up to forgetfulness, the idea that someone stole the binder seems a bit more probable. Now, the reason _why_ is where it starts to get a little asinine." Gordan reached up, adjusted his glasses and peered back with unwavering scrutiny. "This is the first instance of _menu embezzlement_ we've come across. Seems odd it'd start now; at some hole in the wall catering shop, even if it does pertain to the Wayne's. The Joker running rampant through the city doesn't add up, but I've got a feeling there's more going on here." 

He was right there, searing in a game of hot and cold and you could feel the heat even as Lieutenant Gordan let his gaze ween, scanning the quaint stretch of the kitchen and the living room, contemplative. 

"I think Liam's one of the Joker's lackeys." He stated, confidence weaved into the single sentence so smoothly you were a little struck; then you were reminded of Lieutenant Gordan's pristine track record with the GCPD, his undeterred ability to solve even the most difficult of cases. 

The gravity of this moment seemed to double-down. You wanted to hedge the conversation in your favor, say something that might derail Gordan's path to the truth _—_ so close it was starting to suffocate you, but the idea of steering Gordan in a different direction when you knew damn well he knew _something_ seemed a quick a path as any to the interrogation room.

"So, you think Joker's making a move on the _lucrative_ world of catering?" You forced the words out with a touch of nonchalance. 

"Try politics _—_ not sure what his end game is, but it's got something to do with the Wayne Fundraiser, assuming I'm right. In all honesty, I'd rather have him fighting for the king of catering than the king of the underworld." Gordan replied. 

You offered a small, humorless snort in response. The conversation was lulling, maybe for the better, but anticipation still itched at the edges as seconds ticked by. 

"I guess..." You began, staring down into your glass, a sliver of amber swirled around the bottom with a gentle flick of your wrist. "I guess we should get to the point, Lieutenant Gordan. You came here to ask questions, and I'm sure you've got a pile of them after last night." Daring, you looked up at him. 

Gordan met your gaze full on. "Alright.", was all he said, turning just enough to gesture toward your living room. You nodded, raising your glass in silent acknowledgement, knocking back the last shot and setting the glass down on the counter. 

There wasn't enough whiskey in the whole of Gotham to calm your nerves. 

Gordan remained the picture of calm, sitting himself at the edge of your sofa as you took the worn lounge chair opposite the table. He pressed his fingertips in a pensive triangle between his knees, leaned forward and thoughtful as you settled uncomfortably in your seat. The tension of this moment reminded you of a job interview. You internally grimaced _—they were never your forte._

"Don't know how much you recall before, well...before your impromptu leave." Gordan began, offering up a hint of humor that did little to soothe you. You recalled everything before that moment; declaring the police force, _Gordan_ , to be useless to the people, blaming them. If Gordan remembered the conversation, too, he showed no signs of it. "You have to understand the ties you have to this. Be it coincidence," his eyes narrowed, "or something else." 

Even with your hands shaking as they were and your heart stuttering as it was, you somehow managed to keep it together. 

"Hard to remember exactly. All I can _really_ think about is working right next to a psycho, and leaving two minutes before he goes on a stabbing spree." You flatly stated. Gordan glanced at his hands with a small nod, then looked back to you; something changed in his eyes. 

"Seems like trouble follows you like a lost puppy." 

"This is Gotham, Lieutenant. Wolves, not puppies." You retort, surprising even yourself with the way it rolled off your tongue.

Gordan gave a small, dry chuckle. "Wolves...like the Joker, right? He's the _big bad_ of the lot." 

The goosebumps crawled up your spine so quick you nearly gasped. You felt like you'd tear right out of your skin with the way you tensed, the way you pushed everything down and somehow managed to not burst at the seams. 

"I try not to think about him." You said, "He's...not someone I want to get involved with, Lieutenant." 

"I understand. There are, however, still some questions I need to ask." 

"That's why we're here." You felt nauseous, fidgety. 

"Have you had any contact with the Joker since the night you were attacked?" 

There it was; the big question that hung over your head like a blade on a guillotine. 

"No." Simple, direct, it felt too heavy. Heavy enough that it dropped and rippled out a proverbial shift in the air; Gordan adjusted in his seat, bringing a hand up to absently swipe over his mustache. 

"You ran out of there pretty quick, last night." He mused, shifting the conversation yet again, leaving it open for you. 

"I was overwhelmed, like I said. I've been working with Liam for a bit, and you just don't expect something like that to happen." You breathed, a slight waver in your voice. Gordan eyed you for a moment, leaving you to only imagine what conclusions were connecting in his head. 

The questions continued thereafter, nuance all but tossed out the window as Gordan staunchly listed off dates, times, asked where you were, what you were doing. You answered honestly with some, stretched the truth with others, and lied through your teeth when he checked off the dates until yesterday. 

"After I ran, I just...walked around for a bit. I needed to calm myself down. I didn't make it home until after midnight." 

"You didn't return to White Horse afterwards?" Gordan asked, searching your face. 

Shaking your head, you replied, "No. I went home, decided I'd get in contact with you once I cooled off _—_ life kinda got in the way. Work, and all."

The lieutenant didn't respond immediately, rather let your words hang in suspense between the two of you as he sighed through his nose. 

"Thank you, for your time." Bracing a hand against the armrest, he made to stand with an abruptness that nearly threw you off guard. 

You followed suit, hesitating if only for a second. "Of course, Lieutenant." 

The trek to the front door was short, perhaps suspiciously quick the way you opened it, but you needed to get him out of there, you needed to _think_. 

"I meant what I said." He spoke, stopping in the open doorway; this time, with a sense of finality. "Last night, before the incident. I said: _'It was wrong on our end, not to help you more'_...It's true, sometimes the police force isn't up to standards, sometimes things slip through our fingers." He pushed his glasses up, pointedly squaring his gaze with yours. 

"I'm sorry." 

Your breath caught, fingers curling against the door. 

"I also said he was dangerous," Gordan continued on, "More dangerous than anyone I've ever known, and on the right path to tear this city apart if he isn't stopped." It was clear as day what Gordan was saying; not as clear was how much he _truly_ knew. Regardless, he spoke like a man convinced.

The chill air swept it's way inside. 

"I'll keep in touch, if anything changes." 

If you didn't know any better, you'd say you saw disappointment in Gordan's steel gaze _—_ fleeting, but unmistakable. He said nothing else, just gave a nod of his head in silent farewell before he made his way off the porch. When you closed the door, you braced against it and shuddered out a deep exhale. 

It was between every question he made, every comment, every imploring look _—_ Jim Gordan knew. To what extent still remained a mystery, but just the notion of the seasoned cop on your trail was enough to have you shaken to the core. It was enough to make you consider the dangerous, and in this case, the dangerous meant _him_. 

Pushing yourself from the door, digging through your purse on the hook, you told yourself it was for your own sake. It wasn't that you cared about the Joker's plans, or even him, for that matter. You cared about what might happen if Gordan catches on because of _your_ mistake, the ramifications something like that would cause from all the fucked up facets of your life; theft, murder charges, the mob _—the Joker himself._

The Fundraiser was closing in, tomorrow being the last day for White Horse Catering to prepare—somehow miraculously given the circumstances (Gerald had definitely shown himself at least a bit competent when he copied the venue information to the computer), but if the zeal in Lieutenant Gordan's eyes was accounted for, that may not be soon enough. What you were doing still left a bad taste in your mouth. Furthering the Joker's plans to save your own skin, but recent events had done a fine job cushioning the blow of guilt. Right now, against your increasingly questionable judgement, you knew what to do.

_He needs to know. You need to tell him._

You blamed fear for the hollow anticipation in your chest, not because this would be the first time you'd ever contacted _him_ , ever outright asked _him_ for help. You stared at the unnamed number; 608, Gotham's area code, and pressed the call button. Your stomach sank, lungs right along with it, like your body was preparing to hold the tense weight simply hearing his voice filled you with. The phone at your ear, your lower lip taut between your teeth, you listened to the lazy trill that seemed to go on forever. 

"You _rang?"_

Your breath snagged, his distinct tone catching you off guard. Your fingers tightened around the phone, shifting in place with a steadying inhale.

"Gordan was just here _—_ asking about the binder, the Wayne Foundation, and you. He knows something, knows that I'm involved with whatever you've got planned." The information spilled from your lips like you were choking on them, dreadful silence in the aftermath had you itching from the inside out.

Faintly, you heard a clatter in the background, like tools on a metal table. 

"Is there a, uh, _reason_ you called? Sounds to me like you and Gordan were playing catchup. How _is_ the Lieutenant? His _vigilance_ still as, ah, _profound_ as the mustache?" He asked, barely suppressing a giggle. 

You cinched your brows in frustration, "He knows I'm involved with you, and it won't take long for him to piece it all together." You stated, factually.

Maybe not speaking to him in person allowed room for a brazen attitude, or maybe it was that instinct of self-preservation, that double edged sword; if the Joker's plans _didn't_ go off without a hitch, then you'll be among the due justice.

He hummed, "What _exactly_ does Lieutenant Gordan _know?"_

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came, and that was just it; nothing. At least, as far as you knew. 

"He...He didn't say, but I could tell. He was pressing hard, was even waiting outside my apartment before I got home." You explained, bravado deflating with each syllable.

Again, he left a gap between words, you felt adrift in the middle, lost. 

"As much as I'd _love_ to chat, doll _—"_ He began. Your eyes fell shut solemnly, "I've got my hands a _little_ full. _So_ , if there's a _reason_ you called..." 

"Your plans for Gotham _—_ for showing everyone their true colors," you rushed, prepared to appeal to his nature, but he cut you off with a sharp click of his tongue. 

"Seems to me _your_ colors are showing through just fine, _Red_. Here I thought we were making _progress_ , building _trust_." He stretched the words with emphasis, discontent that only read through as malignance.

"I told you, didn't I?"

A loud clatter rang sharply in your ear, you could imagine him throwing something down, frustrated. You swallowed thickly, a horrible despondency twisting within you. It felt to close to regret, to disappointment. 

"I just...I need to know I'm going to be okay." It sounded pathetic, exhaled on a shudder, but it was true. 

"What did I tell you, Red?" His voice was suddenly fuller, thicker—you realized he had you on speakerphone, but not anymore. Even then, his tone had dropped, gravel in your ear made you shiver. He pushed the question with a low hum. 

"You said...you'd keep me safe." It felt strange, affirming that statement. Your head had cleared enough to recognize it as the precarious partnership that it was, your own bias that the Joker wouldn't adhere to those standards simply because it didn't fit his agenda _—_ what felt worse was _accepting_ it, knowing that he really was the only person you could rely on, be it safe or not.

It felt like playing involuntary Russian Roulette, with more than one bullet capable of ending your life. 

"You _know_ what I am, doll?" He queried, his tone sweet. You inhaled breathily, finding the will to speak when he didn't immediately continue. 

"What are you?"

"I am a _man_ of my _word_. And you, _Red_ , shouldn't worry that _pretty_ little head of yours. The, uh, lack of _faith_ —it's _hurtful_. Now, you wouldn't want to be _hurtful_ , not when _I'm_ the only thing between _you_ , _Jim Gordan's_ long arm of the _law_ , _and_ the mob.... _Really_ dug yourself deep, doll... _So_ , us being the _good friends_ that we are, how's about we, uh, _make nice?"_

You knew what he wanted you to say, lodged in your throat, trapped behind your grit teeth. A flourish of heat washed over you, a loathsome combination of embarrassment and anger. You clutched the phone with white knuckles. 

"I'm sorry."

"Let's try and _do better_ , hm?" He sounded utterly wicked, making it easy to envision his splitting grin. 

"I will." Scarcely a whisper, but you knew he heard it. 

_"That's_ the _spirit."_

Questions sat on the tip of your tongue, searching for direction, for information, for _something_ that wouldn't leave you hanging in this all consuming suspense—the thought of him consoling you, if only because he was unnervingly apt at doing so, had your teeth on edge. Still, the feeling persisted, leaving you in a limbo of resent and desperation. 

Before you could say anything, the line went dead. 

You felt like screaming, like hitting your fists against the walls until your knuckles bled, to purge your doubts and fears with a violence that scared even yourself. You slunk down against the door and sat, closing the phone slowly.

The Joker, if you had learned anything from these recent days, would contact you eventually, and with the fundraiser right around the corner, sooner than you were prepared for. 

It could be months, _years_ ; you'll never be prepared for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Back with a short chapter, felt like I needed to tie a couple things up before continuing on to the big night. Apologies for disappearing for a bit, I had fully intended on getting this chapter out sooner, but life started kicking my ass and the holidays decided to join in with a curb-stomp. Also, apologies for any typos, sadly I do not have time to edit these chapters, but hopefully I'll be able to go back in the future and smooth them out. 
> 
> Thanks again to all you lovely folks taking the time to comment/kudo my story, it really does mean so much to me! I sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter, lacking in action as it may be, and continue to enjoy as we go along. <3
> 
> Updated 1/10/21


	9. I Believe In Harvey Dent

_“I was a bird trapped inside a cage that I thought I'd been released from, still confined and limited to where I could fly. I'd been holding up my umbrella to avoid the rain but I never stopped the rain from falling.”_

― Arti Manani

* * *

The chef coat you buttoned up was ebony black, not a stain or loose string in sight. Despite Gerald's own lack thereof, the man was as vigilant as a hawk when it came down to uniforms, events, and the importance of appearance— _especially_ tonight. How hard he was stressing it was clear; his face a stoic, pent-up red that _could_ have also been a side-effect of the pain in his arm, but you knew your boss well enough—he didn't need to be stabbed to be an asshole. 

The phone sat on the vanity sink, silent. The same way it'd been since you called the Joker the night before last. Echoes of that conversation still played in your head as you began tying your hair up into a neat bun. How you'd panicked, how he'd called you out on it—the unmistakable shame you felt even when your blood was boiling and your mind was racing much too fast for apprehension to keep up. It was potent, and bitter, and you wished you could blame it on anything other than embarrassment for doubting him in the first place, but denying it felt too close to lying to yourself.

The Fundraiser was tonight, the deadline was upon you and still, there was no word from The Joker. You weren't sure which to feel; worried, or relieved. He wouldn't just end it _—not_ use you. There was a reason he forced his way into your life, even something as little as being _convenient_.

The Joker may be unpredictable, but you've been around him enough to know he's certainly not incompetent. You could, and with a little experience under your belt, assume that he was simply toying with you. Every encounter you've had with the clown had been permeated in jeering malignance and keeping you in the dark fit like a glove. 

It occurred to you, as you were staring back at yourself in the mirror, that you were wedging explanation where doubt would otherwise flood. Watching the change of revelation on your face was too surreal, spurring you to quickly sweep the phone off the vanity. Flicking the light off, you left without a second glance. 

As you geared up to leave, a hollow pit in your chest where confidence would have been, the Nokia pinged from inside your pocket, startling you. It was with both relief and a crushing amount of dread that you checked it. 

_Here we go._

You barely had enough time to read the first text: **lower west side exit @ 730. disable automatic security using keycard and passcode 051939,** before the second text chimed through: **don't forget to check the mail on your way out, Red.**

_Steal a keycard? How in the_ Hell _—_ a strained, frustrated noise crept out from behind your teeth. The blatant fact that his men, _or even him_ , were outside your apartment didn't even register over the fact that _somehow_ , you'd have to steal a keycard, and they weren't just lying around in a drawer, in some grimy office. They were in pockets, on people, and if Wayne Enterprises took their security half as serious as their galas, the chances of getting one were slim to none. 

But that wasn't an option, and you knew it. 

You were too far in it to back out, sinking further with each passing day. Trudging your way into a tangled web and the only way out was forward, and _he_ seemed determined to make it as difficult as possible. With your heart throwing itself against your ribcage, you slipped the phone back in your pocket and opened the door.

Locking up behind you, you found yourself glancing in the direction of Jeremy's apartment; the porchlight glowing dimly in the faint morning luminescence. The kiss came to mind quick, and something in you wished Jeremy would step outside for a smoke, a talk you dreaded having but yearned for regardless, a dose of that compassion and understanding he radiated with _—_ but he didn't. 

There was a terrible feeling in the pit of your stomach, telling you that you might not get the chance again. Leaving things the way you did felt nothing shy of wrong. You knew that Jeremy deserved better than that _—_ if you were being completely honest, he deserved to _never_ have met you.

You told yourself, as you walked off the stoop of your porch, that it was for the better. Resisting the urge to knock on his door, the urge to reconcile a relationship that you could never indulge in pushed down deep, locked away in the part of you that clung to hope for normalcy. It was made easier as you approached the mailbox; innocuous, but in that moment it was an unseen tether into the Joker's world.

You opened it warily. A brown Manilla envelope; inside, a note and a button. It was a garish thing, big and clunky as you turned it over in your hand. With patriotic flair, the button read: ' **I BELIEVE IN HARVEY DENT** '. 

Scrawled in red ink on a single piece of paper: _Show some faith, will you?_

Stuffing the note into your purse, you shakily fastened the button onto the overlapping lapel of your chef coat, a heavy sense of resignation seeping into your chest. 

* * *

"Never really pegged you as the political type." 

"What?" Cutting your gaze to Charlotte, you could only imagine how vacant you looked. You were immersed in the repetitious routine of skewering shrimp and cherry tomatoes. Running through hairbrained game-plans and the looming danger on the horizon, paying little mind to the bustling kitchen of Wayne Tower's penthouse. 

Reaching out, Charlotte tapped her finger against the button on your coat, "It's a nice touch, I should've found me one of them." 

"Oh, yeah..." You brought a hand up, ghosting over the cool aluminum. "It was given to me...figured there's no better time to wear it." Aware of your dismissive tone, you offered up a small smile. 

Charlotte eyed you in that distinct way of hers, giving a short nod before settling in with a slender hand on your shoulder. "Listen, I know you're counting down the seconds till the end of the day," You tried to focus, but a weird bubble of hysteria caught in your throat _—God, if only you knew._

"We need you today. It's a damn miracle we've gotten this far." 

A sigh that shuddered your breath, you replied, "Sorry. I'm just worried...about the future." 

Saying it aloud felt weighted, acknowledging the obscured path you'd taken, the dangers within it. It was the only thing on your mind. On several occasions you nearly dropped entire trays of food, ran into multiple people, and definitely earned yourself a series of questioning side-eyes.

You weren't in the work, it was blatantly obvious, and there were only so many excuses you could conjure before you start to crack with the pressure of it all. 

Charlotte nodded her head in understanding that scarcely touched the surface. "'Course, you got every right to be. It's a damn shame you're leaving, but I've got a feeling you're gonna be just fine. You've got a good head on those shoulders," she smiled softly, leaning in with a playful glint, "one of the few here, so I _really_ need you to steady it." 

You hoped your laugh sounded less strung-out than it felt.

"Yes ma'am."

Patting you gently, she returned to her work with a lingering gaze. You slipped back into that windowless tunnel of thought, absently prepping the food as you racked your brain for information you simply did not have. You'd been so distracted you didn't even acknowledge the opulence of where you were; the cavernous space of the ballroom, the gorgeous kitchen basked in polished chrome.

White Horse Catering had never stepped foot in a building _half_ as nice as this.

The wonder was disregarded as you made the trip from ground floor to the fortieth, falling in line with your coworkers and hardly listening as Mister Pennyworth staunchly informed the crew on his expectations of etiquette, followed with a brief tour on the kitchen. The trip to the top floor gave you little to go by, unless you counted a spike in discouragement when you noted the multiple security guards lingering in the lobby of the main floor.

Your prior worries were confirmed when you saw their keycards, draped around their necks and quite literally kept close to the chest. How you were going to steal one of them, _in less than two hours,_ seemed nothing but impossible. 

"Guests will be arriving at six-thirty, do please ensure the first platters leave the kitchen by the end of the hour. "Mister Pennyworth spoke just loud enough to hear over the noise, and you jammed the skewer through the shrimp and right into the pad of your thumb. 

You sucked in a sharp breath, dropping what you were doing with a swear. _Great. Now you're bleeding. This day just get's better and better._

Seeking out a first-aid kit, you slipped away from your respective station to disappear into the storage area. Around a corner, it was more quiet and closed off from the rest of the kitchen. Well stocked, but nothing to patch up a kebab'ed hand. 

There was, however, a chef coat. Draped over the top of one of the shelves, closest to the door to the walk-in. Gerald's, if the size of it was telling enough. No doubt he stepped into the fridge to cool off. You wanted to roll your eyes at the hypocrisy, but your attention was quickly stolen with the lanyard dangling from the outer pocket. Breath caught in your throat, aspiration rising within you.

_There's no way it's that easy._

You were quick to fish it out, the Wayne logo flooding you with a sense of relief. Quickly, you stuffed the keycard into your pocket, like a gremlin with a piece of gold, it was priceless. Now all you needed to do was remain anonymous. It shouldn't have been that hard _—_ you'd done so for years without trying. 

"Something I can help you find, miss?" You jumped at the voice, spinning around to see Mister Pennyworth, his hands drawn behind his back with an expectant gleam in his cerulean eyes. How long he was standing there remained a mystery.

It felt like you were choking on dismay as you avoided drawing attention to Gerald's coat still draped over the shelf, the hard plastic of the keycard in your pocket, the active feat of stifling any cracks in your demeanor. 

Sputtering for a response, you nodded. "Yes _—_ sorry, I was looking for the first-aid kit." 

"Are you aware of the purpose of a tour?" His weathered lips quirked just barely, a hint of a smile. 

You forced a laugh, trying to ease the square tension of your shoulders. "Yes, I am. It's just...It's been a hectic week, my heads all over the place." You emphasize with a raise of your hand, the dollop of blood since trickled down your finger. 

His white brows raised, "Well then, we can't have you _bleeding_ all over the food now, can we?" 

You were expecting the door of the walk-in to open any second, Gerald would come stomping out and see you and it wouldn't take a genius to figure out where his missing keycard had gone. You itched to leave the area, shuffling anxiously in place as you nodded your head in agreement. 

"Yeah, that wouldn't look good on our end." You quipped, "My boss, he's a bit of a...stickler, I guess you could say." You glanced at the door to the walk-in, shoving as much meaning into it as you could. Mister Pennyworth proved astute, a knowing look taking over, softness and understanding you hadn't expected. 

"Come along then. And lets pay a little more attention this time." He beckoned you with a wave of his hand, his tone jesting. Leading you out of the storage area, putting distance between you and the ticking bomb that was Gerald's revelation.

At a small closet opposite the kitchen from the storage, Mister Pennyworth departed with a single pat on the shoulder. "Right then. Patch yourself up...and mind the skewers." 

Meticulously, you treated your hand. It wasn't anything bad, a simple prick of the finger, but stretching those seconds felt the only thing to do. Gerald's stocky frame rounded the corner into the kitchen, a deep-set scowl twisting his mustache. Averting your gaze, you turned back to the first-aid kit, anticipating his voice to boom through the kitchen and begin throwing out accusations—you'd be the first on the list _—_ but it didn't come. 

_How long before he notices?_

You stole a glance over your shoulder, catching his distinct amble as he approached one of the cooks. The all too familiar cadence of contemptable criticism joined the wave of noise in the kitchen, and you were quick to tug the phone from your pocket. 

6:20. 

One hour, ten minutes, the seconds ticked by. 

You counted them as they went. 

You'd found the silver-lining when you stabbed your hand, that was easy. But as time sifted down to the minute, you couldn't find any of that now. Gerald seemed to finally realize he was missing his keycard, and Mister Pennyworth _—_ the only one who saw you in the storage area _—_ was approaching Gerald with what you could only assume was that very information.

From across the way you watched as they spoke, voices muted beneath the ramped up bustle of the workers, your boss growing visibly more upset. 

Without thinking, you plucked the first tray of prepared food you saw and slipped out of the kitchen, diving into the steadily thickening crowd of high-end dresses and suits. Gossip and ego-stroking replacing frazzled kitchen lingo so starkly it was like flipping the channel on a television.

The atmosphere luxurious, a maze of upper-class Gothamite's reveling in their grandeur, and you slipped right into the role of eager attendant, weaving through the throngs of people with the platter on your palm, practiced. 

Catering to the people was the last thing on your mind, however. The elevator continuously dinged, spilling more guests into the ballroom. Working your way closer, you eyed the single point of entry, honed in on it with panic-driven determination. 

"Woah, woah _—_ where you goin' with that?" A slurred callout, directed at you. You pivoted, facing an older man; greyed hair at the temples, weathered mouth twisted into a leering grin. You could smell the alcohol from where you were standing, like he was permeated with the stuff. "You're movin' so quick I can't get a good eyeful of what you got." His dark eyes loftily panned you over. 

"Shrimp and tomato hors d'oeuvre, sir." You offered dryly with a raise of the platter, hoping he'd take the not so subtle hint. He glanced at it briefly, more interested in the person holding the tray, and contrary to your nature, you wish you were invisible. 

"I think I'll wait 'till they're serving the main course. I've got a bit of an... _appetite_." He mused, dripping with insinuation. You let it roll off your shoulders, tried to remain unbothered but it still slithered down your spine with discomfort. 

"Of course, sir. I'm positive the _Chicken Escabèche_ will be to your liking." You made to move, attention cutting to the elevator. Time was running out, you could feel it, and you'd be damned if you let this creep ruin your chances of pulling this off _—your freedom was on the line here._

"I was thinking something more... _fresh_." He tacked on, and the way he said it shot disgust in waves right through you.

"I assure you the main _is_ fresh. _Wayne Enterprises'_ spared no expense, as I'm sure you're aware." You threw back, an edge to your tone. Manners were slipping like sand through your fingers, too distracted to keep a hold, too strung out to bother with pleasantries and the continuous effort of remaining unbothered. As you stepped away, he reached out and firmly grasped your arm, nearly flinging the platter to the ground with the force of it. 

"Now _hold on_ , I wasn't done talking to you!" 

"Hey! Let me _go!_ " You shouted, aware of the surrounding party-goers as they turned to watch the commotion; your stomach twisted, they looked _entertained;_ like it was just some show put on for their sake, their smiles splitting their faces, wine glasses pulled to their lips to stifle any gleeful laughter they might have given. 

A part of you was angry for it, but the more immediate part of you, the one that clung to the increasingly far fetched notion of freedom, decided you _didn't_ have time for this. The Joker was probably waiting for you outside the exit _—_ no time for that patience he so obligingly gave you days prior.

You turned to face the man, ready to shout, or spit in his face, or if need be, hit him over the _fucking_ head with the platter in your hands when a smooth voice interjected, cutting through the commotion with an unmistakable finesse. 

"Mister Kelly! I'm surprised to see you here! I was convinced the collaboration project with Gotham General had you preoccupied for weeks." 

As Bruce Wayne's hand fell upon the older mans shoulder, Mister Kelly's hand retreated from your arm, slithered back in close to his chest as he flipped his attention over to something, or in this case, _someone_ more interesting. Wayne stood tall and proud beside Kelly, emanating opulence beside the older man, who looked gaunt by comparison. 

"Wayne! Glad to see you could make it to your own _fiesta_ this time. Figured if I go to all of 'em, I'll run into you eventually." Mister Kelly had steeped his tone in a fawning pitch, a sharp contrast to the leering gravel he'd addressed you with, like he pulled down a mask right before speaking to the infamous playboy. 

Bruce Wayne offered up a discount smile, lacking in the sentiment it usually held. In fairness, you'd only ever seen him through the medium's of television or _The Gotham Times,_ but even so, it was charming in a pompous way. His responding chuckle was near humorless, but Kelly seemed oblivious.

"Of course, Kelly _—_ however _,_ I'm sure you'd much rather talk business with _me_ , than with the help." Wayne remarked, and although it was wrought with condescension, the way he looked at you read something else entirely; surprisingly kind. 

You hardly had the sense to be offended. It was only for a brief moment, a second in passing but there was _something_ about it. Had Bruce Wayne just swooped in to be your impromptu savior? You were rightly bewildered as you watched him casually herd Kelly away further into the crowd.

He spared no second glance; you reined in your attention as quick as you could _—_ _no time to be star-struck_. The elevator pinged again, and you didn't have to look at the time to know you were late. A brief glance toward the kitchen door lit a fire under your ass; Gerald was on the prowl, his hefty frame wading into the mass of people as dark eyes scanned over their heads.

_You need to get out of here,_ **_now_ ** _._

You didn't think about it, haphazardly throwing down the tray on the nearest table, you weaved through the unsuspecting socialites, finding your way to the elevator. Mister Pennyworth's presence put a falter in your step, but he seemed more occupied with greeting the guests than spotting you.

You pushed on, hovering, waiting as the elevator emptied with a potent wave of perfume and copious amounts of silk, a new wave of socialites slinking into the steadily crowding room. One of the women turned her gaze to you, briefly looking you over. Her eyelashes looked like feathers, drooping her gaze to a contemptuous half-mast _—_ you hardly registered her. 

Slipping into the elevator as soon as you could, you peered out into the sea of people in search of Gerald. Through the sliver of the shutting doors, you saw him _—_ and he saw you. It was two seconds that felt like an eternity, closing doors leaving you in a twenty second descent.

Alone and riddled with anxiety, furiously contemplating the repercussions of getting caught, the list replayed in your head: murder, mafia, _him._

Gerald saw you. You didn't know what the Joker had planned but you were seen leaving _moments_ before it happened. The man may be an idiot, nothing shy of a terrible human being, but even _he_ had to see the connection, had to harbor a sliver of integrity _—_ if not integrity, _notoriety_. He wouldn't hesitate for a _second_ to rat you out. 

_"Fuck."_ You spit, infuriated with yourself.

Yanking the phone from your pocket, you checked the time. Fifteen minutes late, and he hadn't sent any message, hadn't indicated any sort of discontent. He didn't need to vocalize it, you were smart enough to know. You clutched the phone, willed yourself not to linger on it as the numbers above the door quickly counted down to one. 

Shrouded darkness greeted you when the doors opened, unsettling silence a sharp contrast to the waterfalls of string lights and the commotion of the penthouse. The main floor was carved out with a massive lobby, bordering hallways and locked doors lining either side of the vast area, dimly lit by overhead emergency lights.

You hurried, skirting over the Wayne name marking the center of the room, taking a sharp right. Disturbing the stillness of the vacant hallway with your rapidly increasing steps, you clutched the phone in your hand with Joker's message on display. 

_Lower west side exit...passcode 051939_...the time was 7:50. 

You couldn't have missed the door if you tried. 

Standing outside, through the pristine glass and with a throng of hovering masks in the background, you could see him. He was staring right at you, raising a hand and shimmying the sleeve of his jacket down to tap at the non-existent watch on his wrist.

Emulating disappointment with a cinch of his brows and a downturned, painted mouth, you found it increasingly hard to approach; like walking with a rope around your waist, trudging forward against the intense instinct to turn tail and run the other way. 

A notable tremor took your hands as you stepped up to the glass, reaching out and swiping the card through the mechanism beside the door. The partial screen flicked to a passcode entry, and you found yourself stealing a fleeting glance at him, knowing that he was watching every move you made.

He was standing close enough that his painted forehead was nearly touching the glass, his gaze pointed and searing right into you, looking like a ghoulish apparition in the night. 

This wasn't the time for hesitance, you knew that. Still, that unseen leash of apprehension was there, a sliver of integrity that whittled down the longer you gave into him. 

_You don't have a choice._ _You can't turn back now._.. _right?_

Right. 

You punched the numbers in quick, not giving yourself a fraction of a second to think further. The screen transitioned to green with an audible beep, the sound of the lock unsheathing heavy and final. Swallowing thickly, you looked up at him again; his grin was splitting his face, all monstrous and terrifying, a maw of stained teeth that sent a shiver down your spine.

There, in the pit of your stomach, it churned something like excitement around; a toxic variety that only ever took you when _he_ was involved. 

Then, alarmingly quick, that smile slithered away and the intensity of his gaze hardened enough to shatter that excitement to pieces, cutting you up from within. His head cocked to the side, lazily rolling his attention from your face to somewhere behind you. 

Footsteps were heard, faint and light, growing in sound the more time passed. You followed it, turned in place to see Gerald barreling down the hallway with you in his sights, mouth downturned with a wrathful glare.

_No, no no no._

Panic was rising up in your chest, flooding you. 

"You're a fuckin' _thief!_ I _knew_ it was you that stole the binder, I fuckin' _knew_ it _—_ " nearly shouting, his face drowning in a hue of angry red as he quickly advanced.

The door opened from behind you, Gerald's expression flashing from irate to apprehensive with the blink of an eye. Joker's presence sent goosebumps across your skin, his hand curling into your shoulder as he stood close enough that you could feel him brush against your back.

From your peripheral you saw his goons trickle in through the door, rounding you and steadily advancing toward your boss, who'd since halted in his steadfast march with a visible tremor rattling his hefty frame. 

"The hell _—you_ , you're _him_ _—_ " He stuttered, his mouth perpetually agape as he pointed a finger at the Joker. "That guy _—_ that-that _freak_ from the news!"

He twisted the word with clear vitriol. Joker's fingers burrowed deeper into the muscle of your shoulder, making you flinch and give a small noise of discomfort. 

The man in question gave a small hum, so low you knew it was meant for your ears only, the proximity of him keeping you in place as his lackeys closed in on Gerald. They were armed with a myriad of weapons; baseball bats, pistols, _rifles_.

Joker raised the shotgun in his hand, pointing it directly at Gerald, who in turn looked as close to pissing himself as you'd ever seen a full grown man look. 

_They're going to kill him._

The way Gerald looked at you; the fear in his eyes, the shock. It sent a fresh wave of chills through you but the taste of it was different. It wasn't you fearing for your life, your future, the very man who stood behind you like a demon in the shadowed hallway.

This was anticipatory, and somewhere within you, you had the means to acknowledge how absolutely fucked up that was. Then, like he could sense the change of tone within you, Joker spoke up. 

"That's two for three, doll." He breathed in your ear, turning his head enough that you felt the brush of his nose against your hair. "I'll let you slide... _for now._ You are _still_ learning, _after all."_

You tensed, "I got you inside, I did what you wanted." 

" _Mhm_ , sure, of _course_ but, uh...I didn't _anticipate_ a plus one." Cuffing your chin in his hand, he jerked your head back toward Gerald, forcing you to watch as the goons held him by gunpoint. "Sorry _boss_ , but we're gonna need you to _sit this one out_."

Your breath caught in your throat, anticipating the jarring blast of a gunshot, but then the Joker interjected with a contemplative murmur. "On _second_ thought...let's bring him back for the, ah... _afterparty_ _—_ that’ll be _fun_ , don’t you think Red?” As he asked, he lowered his head, resting his chin on your shoulder.

You stiffened at the contact, acutely aware of the heat radiating from his chest, his presence encompassing you with the scents of gasoline, gunpower, tobacco smoke. Breathing in deep through your nose, you caught the underlying hint of cologne—cedar, a strange resin aroma that felt too warm, too alluring.

He asked you a question, but you felt solidified to speechless stone, staring ahead of you, entranced as Gerald grew increasingly distressed.

"Just...Just let me go, alright? I won't tell no one, I _swear_ _—_ " Gerald broke off his sentence with a desperate shout of your name, "I won't tell a soul! You _gotta_ believe me!" 

“What do _you_ think, doll? He _trustworthy_? You _do_ know him better than me…” Joker mused, pulling himself away. His hand remained on your shoulder as he rounded you, placing himself between you and your distraught boss.

Gaze flicking between Gerald and Joker, you felt the pressure thicken in the air, like a black cloud threatening thunder, lightning _—_ the storm was in your hands.

There was something about the way Gerald pleaded, begged with bugged out eyes, fat mouth quivering like a child face to face with the monster under his bed; you knew he was telling the truth. You despised the man, had harbored morbid fantasies of revenge, the highest form that came with everlasting blood on your hands.

Seeing him reduced to this; stripped completely of that detestable ego that made your life _Hell_ for the past few years, was undeniably gratifying. You’d never had _anyone_ look at you the way Gerald was in that moment.

“I think he’s telling the truth.” You finally stated. Gerald’s shoulders slunk with visible relief, although the tension in the air remained steadfast as Joker struck his tongue against the top of his mouth, a clear sound of dissatisfaction.

“ _Survey says_ …” He gestured a broad swoop to Gerald, who was watching the clown with abject terror, “ _wrong_ answer.” A wicked grin split his face as he looked from Gerald, to you. “That’s _three_ for _three_ …looks like the _afterparty’s_ gonna be a bit more… _crowded_ than we thought.”

“No! No, wait _—_ “ Gerald began shouting, twisting himself away from the multiple goons who’d since grabbed him, pushing him down to his knees with a painful sounding thud. His grip on your shoulder tightened as he stepped in closer to you, obscuring the view of Gerald getting zip-tied and gagged, flailing about like a fish out of water, scuffling against the cold floor with muffled shouts.

Your heart was pounding, pulsating in your temples like a rapid drum.

“W-What are you going to do to him?” It was just above a whisper, heavy with uncertainty. Joker hummed thoughtfully, putting himself directly in front of you. Leaning down, he brought his face near level with yours, leaving a breath of distance between you.

“Let’s not, ah… _spoil_ the surprise. After all…the afterparty’s in _your_ honor, doll.” 

Cold fear shot down your spine, realization shoving you a few paces back toward the unlocked door behind you. “You said…you said that if I do this, I’d be _safe_. I’d be _okay_ _—_ I don’t want anything else to do with you, or _this_ ,” you frantically motioned around you, fighting the consuming flight response his malicious gaze instilled in you. "I did what you wanted _—"_

His fingers curled into your shoulder harshly, tugging you against him so quick there was no time to react.

His torso was solid, palms braced against the middle of his chest before he maneuvered you around with his gun-free hand, forearm draped over your sternum. He dipped down again, his nose grazing against your temple. You stifled a whimper, tugging on the sleeve of his jacket.

“I’m starting to think you’re not uh, _grasping_ the situation at hand, Red. You can’t _walk_ outta here _—_ wash your hands of all that _blood_ , and expect to be _safe_. No, no…” He turned then, tugging you along with him, “too many _loose-ends_.”

You saw Gerald, wide-eyed as he was tugged to his feet, staring at you in the Joker’s arms as the two of you passed him, a small herd of armed thugs falling in line behind you. 

You wanted to feel sympathy for the man _—_ you were still human, after all, but you were stretched too thin for any of it to go around.

Once inside the small elevator, pressed up closer against the Joker, an unnerving calm took the group; generic elevator music played softly in the background. You felt like you were going to have a panic-attack, eyes glued to the numbers above the doors, a foreboding tremor taking your body. 

“Don’t you worry, sweethear _-t.”_ Joker spoke in your ear, you flinched away from his mouth. “I’ll take care of _everything.”_ His voice dropped with a gravelly pitch.

_I'll keep you safe._

You were a fool to think he'd do anything other than this, thinking that he'd _let you go_. A broken, too desperate for your liking sound tumbled from your lips.

His responding chuckle sounded borderline unhinged, excitement welling up his tone into something manic. 

The doors opened with a _ding_ , his grasp on you loosened and you found yourself face to face with Mister Pennyworth. Recognition sparked in the older man’s eyes, the Joker gripped your chef jacket and yanked you to the side, flinging you into the arms of another goon, the cold bite of a pistol against your temple.

_“We made it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per the norm; I apologize for any typos/grammar mistakes, I have no beta and no time to edit. This chapter is a two-parter, I hope you enjoyed the first half! Thank you for taking the time to read, kudos/comments/concrit is immensely appreciated! I'll see you lovely folks soon for part two of this chapter! <3 
> 
> For any curious cats, [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6BC2d5LyNLNhpkt5oUH1ke) is my playlist for 'Happenstance', and [here](https://anais-angel.tumblr.com/) is my tumblr!
> 
> _Fun fact!_ The code for the door is the date Batman made his first appearance in **Detective Comics #27** , May 1939.
> 
> updated 2/12/2021


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